■ 


FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 

REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY   OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


M85& 


■ 


s*jt**  :  ** 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM 


The  dead  are  like  stars  by  day, 
Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye, 

But  not  extinct ;  they  hold  their  way 
In  glory  through  the  sky. 


{brontu 


THE 


EPWORTH   SINGERS 


AND    OTHER    POETS 


METHODISM 


REV.  S.  W.   CHRISTOPHERS, 

AUTHOR   OF    "  HYMN    WRITERS   AND    THEIR    HYMNS,"    "  HOMES    OF    OLD    ENGLISH 
WRITERS,"    ETC. 


"  When  Poetry  keeps  its  place,  as  the  handmaid  of  Piety,  it  shall  attain,  not 
a  poor  miserable  wreath,  but  a  crown  that  fadeth  not  away." — John  Wesley. 


ANSON  D.  F.  RANDOLPH  &  COMPANY, 
770  Broadway,  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


Frontispiece. — (Page  Illustration?) 

Preface  ........         vii 

CHAPTER    I. 
Introductory  Chapter         .....  I 

CHAPTER    II. 
Fathers  of  Poets  ......         20 

CHAPTER    III. 
The  Epworth  Singers         .....  41 

CHAPTER   IV.— (Page  Illustration.) 
Others  of  the  Epworth  Singers        .  .  .  .61 

CHAPTER    V. 
Two  Brothers  in  Song       .....  90 

CHAPTER   VI. 
More  about  Songs  from  the  Brothers         .  .  .113 

CHAPTER   VII. 
Other  Psalms  from  the  Brothers  in  Song  .  .  135 

CHAPTER   VIII. 
Clerical  Song-Masters  .....       160 

CHAPTER   IX. 
More  Clerical  Song-Masters        .  .  .  .  179 

CHAPTER  X.—(Page  Illustration.) 
Itinerant  Minstrels     ......       200 

CHAPTER    XI. 
A  Controversial  Songster  .  .  .  .  219 


PAGE 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XII. 
Three  Lay  Singers       ......       241 

CHAPTER    XIII. 
A  Choir  of  Holy  Women  ....  262 

CHAPTER   XIV. 
Poetical  Divines,  Father  and  Son    ....       284 

CHAPTER    XV. 
Two  Poetic  Metaphysicians  ....  305 

CHAPTER    XVI. 
Later-Day  Clerical  Hymnists  ....       324 

CHAPTER   XVII. 
A  Poetical  Satirist  .....  344 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
The  Tuneful  Son  of  a  Prophet  ....       366 

CHAPTER  XIX.— (Page  Illustration.) 
An  Inspired  Young  Maiden  ....  388 

CHAPTER    XX. 
A  Bard  from  the  Mine  .  .  .  .  ,       412 

CHAPTER    XXI. 
A  Kentish  Lyric     .  .  .%  .  .  .  434 

CHAPTER    XXII. 
Three  Poetic  Voices  from  the  West  .  .  .       454 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
Some  of  the  Latest  Sons  of  Song  .  .  .  478 


Index  to  Hymns,  with  Authors'  Names        .  .  499 

„         Names,  Places,  etc.        ....  508 


PREFACE 


tffjEJffi  T    is  not   intended,   in    this  volume,   to   give   fall 


(&SmJp      biographies   of   all    "the  Poets  of  Methodism." 
VQ>      ^n  most  cases,   enough  is    said,  it   is  hoped,  to 
c  show  where,  when,  and  amidst  what  surround- 

ings, the  Methodist  Poets  lived.  Every  possible  care  has 
been  taken  to  secure  accuracy  as  to  dates  and  chrono- 
logical order  j  while  all  available  means  have  been  used  to 
preserve  the  sketches  of  life  and  character  from  any  shade  or 
colouring  of  untruthfulness.  The  reader  has  before  him 
every  name  of  worthy  poetic  genius  and  taste  with  which  the 
writer  has  become  acquainted,  during  a  quiet  and  patient 
research  into  all  accessible  Methodist  chronicles,  dating  from 
the  times  of  Wesley  to  the  present  day.  If  the  volume 
should  appear  chargeable  with  omissions,  the  author  has  only 
to  say  that  no  place  has  been  given  to  some  worthy  names, 
such  as  Miles  Martindale  and  J.  W.  Etheridge,  for  lack  of 
timely  access  to  their  poetic  remains.  In  other  instances, 
the  claims  to  notice  have  seemed  too  doubtful,  or  the  names 
had  fallen  into  too  deep  an  obscurity. 


Vlll  PREFACE. 

Grateful  acknowledgments  are  due  to  the  authors  of 
several  papers  on  "  Hymns  and  their  Writers,"  in  the  Wesleyan 
Times.  In  particular  the  author's  thanks  are  tendered  to 
Mr.  W.  M.  Symons,  of  Vauxhall,  for  a  sight  of  his  valuable 
collection  of  MSS.  and  printed  notes  on  "Methodist  Hymn- 
Writers  and  their  Hymns";  also  to  the  Rev.  Messrs.  Benjamin 
Gregory  and  F.  F.  Woolley,  Mr.  Benjamin  Gough,  Mr. 
James  Smetham,  and  Mr.  C.  L.  Ford,  for  permission  to  use 
the  verses  which  he  has  given  in  association  with  their 
names. 

The  main  object  of  these  pages  is  to  afford  occasional 
opportunities  of  agreeable  communion  with  a  few  hallowed 
and  gifted  spirits  who  have  "  served  their  generation,  by  the 
will  of  God,"  in  holy  song  and  psalmody.  And  if  any 
reader's  soul  should  be  brought  to  realise  a  happier  tone  of 
thought  and  feeling,  while  taking  a  passing  glance  at  the 
persons  of  Methodist  Poets,  or  should  gain,  at  any  leisure 
moment,  a  pleasant  insight  into  their  hearts,  habits,  and 
homes,  while  he  is  under  the  charm  of  their  musical  varia- 
tions in  verse,  the  author's  recompense  will  be  full. 

s.  w.  c. 

Redruth,  1874. 


THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER. 

The  Christian  bard  has,  from  a  real  spring 
Of  inspiration,  other  themes  to  sing; 
No  vain  philosophy,  no  fabled  rhyme, 
But  sacred  story,  simple  and  sublime, 
By  holy  prophets  told  ;  to  whom  belong 
The  subjects  worthy  of  the  pow'rs  of  song. 

■** 

HERE  is  sometimes  a  striking  similarity  between 
what  is  said  or  done  at  a  particular  point  in  one 
^      man's  history,  and  words  or  actions  at  a  remark- 
•"OJV       able  turn  in  the  life  of  another.     The  actions  or 
I  words  seem,   indeed,  to    repeat  themselves    like 

times  in  the  personal  experience  of  very  different  men.  So 
it  would  appear  to  be  in  the  lives  of  Charles  Wesley  and 
Lord  Byron.  "What,  would  you  have  me  to  be  a  saint  all 
at  once  "  ?  said  Charles  Wesley,  when  he  was  a  sprightly 
young  Oxford  student,  and  his  brother  John  spoke  to  him 
about  religion.  Charles  did  become  saintly,  however,  and 
was  a  Methodist  rather  earlier  than  his  brother. 

"Would  you  have  me  turn  Methodist  ?  "  said  Byron  once 
to  Walter  Scott,  when,  like  a  true  friend,  the  poetic  novelist 
had  spoken  plainly  to  him  about  the  claims  of  personal  piety. 
"  Methodist !  "  replied  Scott,  "no,  I  cannot  think  of  you  as 

B 


1  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

a  Methodist ;  but  I  can  conceive  of  your  being  a  catholic 
Christian."  Had  Byron  asked  his  friend  to  define  the  term 
*  catholic  Christian,'  we  should  have  had  a  definition  of 
Christian  piety  such  as  the  mind  of  Scott  conceived  to  be 
proper  for  a  poet  like  Byron.  His  catholic  Christianity  would 
probably  be  broad,  artistic,  and  gorgeous  enough  to  allow 
entire  freedom  to  the  play  of  the  poet's  genius.  In  outward 
grandeur  of  forms,  influence,  and  power,  it  must  be  favour- 
able to  the  unchecked  supremacy  of  his  imagination  and 
poetic  passion.  There  must  be  full  licence  for  pride  of 
intellect  to  live  under  the  semblance  of  severe  devotion.  It 
must  be  rather  ritualistic  than  spiritual ;  more  sensuous  than 
heartfelt 5  and  all  its  requisitions  must  leave  the  poet  free  to 
make  poetic  fame  and  success  the  commanding  objects  of  his 
life.  Romish  pomp,  or  Greek  ceremonial  splendour,  or  even 
the  show  of  Anglo-Catholicism,  might  suit  a  catholic  Christian 
such  as  Scott  wished  Byron  to  be.  From  his  point  of  sight, 
perhaps,  the  great  novelist  saw  that  Methodism  would  be  too 
bald  in  its  forms,  too  simple  in  its  aim,  too  unadorned  in  its 
style,  too  primitive  in  its  discipline,  and  too  absorbing  in  its 
one  pursuit,  to  fit  a  genius  whose  only  ambition  was  poetic 
glory.  Scott,  it  may  be,  did  not  look  deep  enough  into 
Methodism  to  see  that  its  standard  of  spiritual  piety  was  such 
as  would  not  permit  the  mere  culture  of  intellect,  or  the 
exercise  of  poetic  genius  alone,  to  be  the  one  absorbing  action 
or  object  of  life. 

It  has  been  said  by  some,  "  How  gloriously  would  Byron 
have  shone  as  a  poet,  had  he  been  a  Christian  !  "  He  might 
possibly  have  shone  had  he  been  a  Christian  in  the  popular 
sense :  a  Christian  chiefly  in  creed,  or  ritual,  or  even  in  spirit, 
according  to  the  general  notion  of  a  Christian  spirit  j  but  would 
his  poetic  powers  have  been  so  gloriously  exhibited  had  he 
become  a  Christian  after  St.  Paul's  scyle,  or  St.  John's  type, 
or  one  in  accordance  with  the  original  standard  of  the  Divine 
Master  ?  Probably  not.  It  is  a  question  whether  any  man, 
whatever  his  genius  may  be,  can  become  a  poet  of  the  first 
order  in  the  estimation  of  the  mere  intellectual  world,  without 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  3 

proving  that  the  main  purpose  and  leading  motives  of  his  life 
have  checked  the  cultivation  of  that  pure,  Christ-like  unselfish- 
ness which  the  New  Testament  calls  the  Christian  to  attain. 
But  it  is  not  a  question  whether  the  Christian  who  is  wholly 
bent  on  holiness  of  heart  carries  his  life's  aim  far  beyond  the 
successes  and  rewards  of  mere  intellect  or  genius.  Nor  can 
it  be  doubted  that  the  pure  principles  of  spiritual  Christian 
life,  in  their  commanding  influence  over  the  "whole  spirit 
and  soul  and  body,"  though  they  may  bring  every  natural 
gift  into  full  exercise  for  the  glory  of  Christ,  always  carry  the 
hallowed  man  above  the  desire  of  devoting  his  powers  to  any 
service  that  is  not  purely  for  Christ's  glory ;  certainly  saving 
him  from  devotion  to  anything  that  glorifies  self. 

New  Testament  Christianity  is  in  conformity  with  the 
truth,  "  Ye  are  not  your  own,  for  ye  are  bought  with  a  price  : 
therefore  glorify  God  in  your  body  and  in  your  spirit  which 
are  God's."  The  genuine  Christian  serves  Christ  "  inspirit  "  ; 
not  merely  in  his  "  soul  and  body,"  but  "in  spirit."  His 
higher  powers,  his  ' spirit,'  his  religious  faculty,  his  "inner 
man,"  which  communes  with  "the  Father  and  the  Son  and 
the  Holy  Spirit,"  enables  him  to  realize  St.  Paul's  experience, 
"we  walk  by  faith,  not  by  sight."  The  world  of  sense 
does  not  engage  us,  the  region  of  mere  intellect  does  not 
detain  us.  Men  of  lower  views  and  narrower  aims  mind 
the  "  things  that  are  seen,"  the  things  which  their  thinking 
faculty,  their  unhallowed  genius  and  passions,  may  deal  with  j 
but  we  have  eyes  for  "things  that  are  not  seen."  Our 
spiritual  sight  is  not  so  bent  beneath  and  around  us  ;  it  is 
rather  turned  forward  and  upward.  God  has  brought  us 
around  to  Himself  and  His  kingdom  ;  and  now  we  walk  with 
our  eyes  on  Him  and  His  "heavenlies."  "lam  crucified 
with  Christ ;  nevertheless  I  live  5  yet  not  I,  but  Christ  liveth 
in  me  j  and  the  life  which  I  now  live  in  the  flesh,  I  live  by 
the  faith  of  the  Son  of  God,  who  loved  me  and  gave  Himself 
for  me."  "Ye  are  dead,"  says  the  same  apostle  to  Christians 
"and  your  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God."  You  are  dead  to 
all  glory  but  His.    For  "  He  died  for  all,  that  they  which  live 


4  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

should  not  henceforth  live  unto   themselves  but  unto  Him 
which  died  for  them  and  rose  again." 

Paul  was  a  man  of  noble  gifts.  His  acute  and  powerful 
understanding,  his  imagination,  his  genius  and  taste,  his 
depths  of  feeling,  his  powers  of  expression,  and  his  varied 
attainments,  might  have  secured  distinguished  honours  ;  but 
the  moment  he  became  a  Christian,  every  thing  which  he 
possessed  or  could  command  was  unreservedly  devoted  to 
his  Lord's  service  and  glory.  His  talents  were  improved  and 
employed  to  the  uttermost;  but  never  so  as  to  let  "self 
seek  or  share  any  honour  that  belonged  to  his  Master  alone. 
"  What  things  were  gain  to  me,"  says  he,  "those  I  counted 
loss  for  Christ.  Yea  doubtless  and  I  count  all  things  but  loss 
for  the  excellency  of  the  knowledge  of  Christ  Jesus  my  Lord ; 
for  whom  I  have  suffered  the  loss  of  all  things  and  do  count 
them  but  dung,  that  I  may  win  Christ,  and  be  found  in  Him." 
There  have  been  souls,  since  Paul's  time,  who  have  caught 
his  spirit,  and  with  simplicity  and  meek  unselfishness  have 
kept  Christ's  glory  before  them,  forgetting  their  own,  and 
calling  all  their  genius,  or  science,  or  learning,  or  philosophy 
into  full  action,  have  done  all  for  Christ's  glory.  Like  "  wise 
men,"  they  have  been  led  to  Jesus  by  every  new  "  star  "  they 
have  discovered  j  and  have  laid  all  their  '  opened  treasures,' 
the  rich  fruits  of  their  thought  and  toil,  at  His  feet,  their 
"  gold,  and  frankincense,  and  myrrh."  And  so  the  Christian 
who  is  gifted  with  poetic  genius,  if  he  follow  Paul  as  Paul 
followed  Christ,  will,  for  Christ's  sake,  improve  his  talent  and 
exercise  his  gift,  not  "to  be  seen  of  men,"  not  merely  to 
excel  as  a  poet,  or  to  "please  men,"  or#to  immortalize  his 
own  name,  but,  as  Paul  would  say,  to  honour  Him  "  whose  I 
am  and  whom  I  serve."  The  poetry  of  such  a  man  would 
please  his  neighbour  "for  his  good  to  edification."  It  would 
never  be  inconsistent  with  Christian  purity  of  thought  and 
feeling.  It  would  accord  with  the  finely  expressed  feeling  of 
a  young  modern  poet,  "  I  wish  to  be  less  a  popular  than  a 
religious  poet.  My  desire  is  to  write  only  Christian  poetry — 
praise  to  Christ,  my  Lord  and  Saviour,  and  to  leave  popular 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  ^ 

and  general  themes  to  those  who  can  succeed  in  them  far 
better  than  I.  I  would  have  Redemption  for  my  song;  and 
though  mine  may  not  be  the  Muse  for  the  million,  yet,  if  her 
voice  may  rise  sweetly  in  the  ear  of  Jesus,  and  find  an  echo 
in  His  disciples'  hearts,  how  high  will  be  my  honour!  "  or, 
as  she  devoutly  expresses  herself  to  God, 

O  Thou  whose  poetry  and  love  in  one, 

Walk  forth  where'er  Thou  art,  and  hand  in  hand 

Encircle  heaven  and  earth,  Thou  above  praise 

Exalted  infinitely  ;  O  great  God  ! 

Hear  me,  and  make  me  a  pure  golden  harp 

For  Thy  soft  finger.     Might  I  be  Thy  bird, 

Hidden  from  all,  singing  to  Thee  alone. 

"  I  would  have  no  poetry  but  such  as  Christ  can  smile  on," 
said  this  same  sweet  singer  ;  "  oh,  may  I  write  no  other  !  " 

Such  is  the  poetry  which  holy  men  of  God  used  to  utter  in 
the  fulfilment  of  their  Divine  mission.  Their  psalms  and 
hymns,  odes  and  visions,  which  have  come  down  to  us, 
show  how  rich  and  rare  were  the  natural  gifts  which  they 
employed  in  declaring  the  will  of  Him  to  whom  they  cease- 
lessly rendered  homage  as  the  Author  and  End  of  all  their 
endowments.  With  all  the  simple  majesty  of  their  odes,  the 
ringing  harmony  of  their  anthems,  the  grandeur  and  beauty 
of  their  hymns,  the  awful  glories  of  their  dreams  and  visions, 
the  rich  simplicity  of  their  pastorals,  and  the  chaste,  impres- 
sive, and  thrilling  music  of  their  illustrations,  all  of  surpassing 
excellence — yet  self  is  never  seen.  They  never  decline  from 
their  lofty  aim.  Their  aim  is  God.  Their  work  is  to  declare 
His  will,  to  proclaim  His  Messiah,  to  sustain  His  worship,  to 
issue  His  warnings  and  teachings,  and  to  record  the  truth 
which  is  to  make  "  men  wise  unto  salvation."  They  are  true 
poets,  though  they  never  show  poetry  to  be  their  object. 
Theirs  is  no  mere  intellectual  calling.  Theirs  is  a  work  of 
sublime  faith ;  faith  in  the  Unseen.  They  might  be  uncon- 
scious of  their  own  poetic  spirit  and  power,  so  void  are  they 
of  any  apparent  thought  about  themselves.  If  they  speak  of 
themselves,  it  is  only  to  make  God's  will  more  clear  and  im- 
pressive.    There  is  no  evident  effort,  no  straining  for  effect, 


6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

no  design  to  show  their  wealth  of  material,  no  apparent  wish 
to  startle  by  sudden  brilliancy  or  happy  turns.  The  reader 
never  smells  the  writer's  lamp.  Nor,  indeed,  does  a  breath 
escape  them  which  might  serve  to  indicate  the  loss  of  their 
Divine  purpose  amidst  cherished  thoughts  about  their  own 
inner  selves  or  their  personal  reputation.  They  are  careless 
of  their  own  names  as  poets ;  and  have  no  concern  about 
leaving  a  memorial.  Indeed,  they  never  speak  as  professional 
poets.  Poetry  is  not  their  profession.  They  are  simply 
prophets,  ambassadors,  voices ;  and  if  they  psalm  it,  they 
chant  to  bewail  their  sins,  to  glorify  God  for  their  deliverance, 
or,  as  humble  and  happy  saints,  to  declare  what  God  had  done 
for  their  souls.  Their  standard  of  piety  was  too  high,  too 
God-like,  to  allow  their  poetry  to  be  anything  but  purely 
devotional,  anything  that  did  not  most  certainly  tend  to  God's 
glory.  And  while  their  standard  is  maintained  by  men  of 
poetic  genius,  poetry  will  take  the  same  character,  and  be 
mainly  such  as  will  purify  the  tone  of  human  intellect,  and, 
above  all,  awaken  the  human  spirit  to  the  duties  and  joys  of 
Christian  worship. 

Though  now  there  seems  one  only  worthy  aim 

For  poet — that  my  strength  were  as  my  will ! 
And  which  renounce  he  cannot  without  blame — 

To  make  men  feel  the  presence  of  his  skill, 
Of  an  eternal  loveliness  ;  until 

They  faint  with  love,  and  longing  for  their  home, 
Yet  not  the  less  be  strengthened  to  fulfil 

Their  work  on  earth,  that  they  may  surely  come 
Unto  the  Land  of  Rest,  who  here  as  exiles  roam. 

Those  who  are  not  under  the  sacred  control  of  the  Holy 
Ghost  in  a  way  analogous  to  that  in  which  inspired  writers 
were,  will  of  course  feel  more  deeply  the  difficulty  of  exer- 
cising their  conscious  poetic  power  consistently  with  that 
thorough  unselfishness  which  pure  Christianity  demands.  And 
their  difficulty  will  be  the  greater  in  proportion  to  the  strength 
of  their  conviction,  that  self  must  be  ignored  if  they  would 
glorify  Christ  by  full  conformity  to  His  mind.  Charles 
Wesley  felt  this  difficulty  at  first  :  and  has  recorded  his  deep 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  7 

sense  of  it  in  a  hymn  of  touching  plaintiveness,  warm  pathos, 
and  vigorous  harmony  of  expression — 

Where  shall  I  lay  my  weary  head  ? 

Where  shall  I  hide  me  from  my  shame  ? 
From  all  I  feel,  and  all  I  dread, 

And  all  I  have  and  all  I  am ! 
Swift  to  outstrip  the  stormy  wind, 
And  leave  this  cursed  self  behind. 

0  the  intolerable  load 

Of  nature,  waken'd  to  pursue 
The  footsteps  of  a  distant  God, 

Till  faith  hath  form'd  the  soul  anew ! 
'Tis  death,  'tis  more  than  death  to  bear — 

1  cannot  live  till  God  is  here. 

Give  me  Thy  wings,  celestial  Dove, 

And  help  me  from  myself  to  fly ; 
Then  shall  my  soul  far  off  remove, 

The  tempest's  idle  rage  defy, 
From  sin,  from  sorrow,  and  from  strife 
Escaped,  and  hid  in  Christ,  my  Life. 

Stranger  on  earth,  I  sojourn  here : 

Yet,  O,  on  earth  I  cannot  rest 
Till  Thou,  my  hidden  Life,  appear, 

And  sweetly  take  me  to  Thy  breast : 
To  Thee  my  wishes  all  aspire, 
And  sighs  for  Thee  my  whole  desire. 

Search  and  try  out  my  panting  heart : 

Surely,  my  Lord,  it  pants  for  Thee, 
Jealous  lest  earth  should  claim  a  part: 

Thine,  wholly  Thine  I  gasp  to  be. 
Thou  know'st  'tis  all  I  live  to  prove ; 
Thou  know'st  I  only  want  Thy  love. 

The  hymnist  here  discloses  the  struggle  in  the  soul  of  a  poet 
who  admits  the  supreme  claim  of  Christ  to  all  that  a  Christian 
has  and  is,  and  who  is  fixed  in  his  purpose  and  desire  of  realiz- 
ing entire  consecration  of  his  powers  to  the  Divine  service  -7 
while  he  yet  feels  the  effort  of  self  against  the  sacrifice  of  all 
which  the  pride  of  intellect  and  conscious  genius  would  con- 
tend for  on  their  own  behalf. 

The  standard  of  Christian  holiness  which  Charles  Wesley 
set  before  himself  was  that  which  he  and  his  brother  John  set 
before  themselves  and  the  people  called  Methodists.  It  was 
the  standard  of  that  perfect  love  to  Christ  which  constrains 


8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

him  who  realizes  it  to  fulfil  the  apostolic  injunction,  "  I  be- 
seech you  therefore,  brethren,  by  the  mercies  of  God,  that  ye 
present  your  bodies  a  living  sacrifice,  holy,  acceptable  unto  God, 
which  is  your  reasonable  service.  And  be  not  conformed  to 
this  world  :  but  be  ye  transformed  by  the  renewing  of  your 
mind,  that  ye  may  prove  what  is  that  good,  and  acceptable, 
and  perfect  will  of  God."  To  be  a  holy  people  in  this  sense 
of  living  for  Christ  alone,  and  so,  in  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice 
to  "spread  scriptural  holiness  over  the  land,"  was  the  prin- 
ciple and  purpose  of  the  Methodists j  and  faithfulness  to 
this  standard  of  piety  would  admit  of  no' self-seeking,  no 
proud  aspirations  of  mere  intellect,  no  pandering  to  the  wor- 
shippers of  mind,  no  mode  of  limiting  the  pursuits  of  life  to 
the  regions  of  either  sense,  or  genius,  or  passion,  or  intellec- 
tual power.  Whatever  efforts  the  poetic  genius  of  a  consistent 
Methodist  might  put  forth,  they  must  necessarily  be  such, 
and  such  only,  as  are  in  keeping  with  unreserved  devotion  to 
Christ  alone. 
.  A  young  Methodist  poet  beautifully  represents  the  tempta- 
tion which  may  assail  conscious  genius  in  its  first  essays  to 
devote  itself  entirely  to  Christ ;  and  shows  the  spirit  in  which 
the  temptation  is  to  be  met  and  overcome.  The  tempter  is 
symbolized  by 

A  giant  flower 
"Whose  cup  turned  upward. 

And  he  speaks  to  the  tempted  who  is  figured  by 

A  lily  of  the  vale  without  a  spot. 

"  Rise,"  he  said, 
"  Thou  pretty,  timorous  spirit;  wherefore  hide 
Such  matchless  beauty ;  1,  not  half  so  fair, 
Lift  up  my  head  and  live :  I  am  a  king, 
And  Genius  is  my  name ;  and  on  the  stem 
Of  pride  do  I  sit  royally,  and  gaze 
On  the  broad  universe — that  mirror  spread 
For  gods  and  me — wherein  I  read  my  form 
Glassed  out  in  glory ;  tall  as  the  night  heavens, 
And  broader  than  the  ocean.     Rise  too 
Thou  white  Humility,  darling  of  heaven, 
Give  me  thy  hand  ;  I'll  teach  thee  how  to  soar, 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  9 

And  thou  shalt  be  a  queen,  if  thou  but  turn 
Thy  bells  this  way.     See  what  a  world  of  light 
Stands  o'er  thee! " 

"  Nay,  I  must  not,"  said  the  flower; 
"  I  have  commandment  ever  to  rise  up, 
And  ever  to  look  down  ; — this  law  is  given 
To  keep  my  robe  snow-white." 

Methodism  proper,  then,  could  never  be  expected  to  number 
among  its  members  such  poets  as  live  by  choice  among  the 
intellectual  gods.  Byron  could  not  be  Byron  the  poet  and 
Byron  the  Methodist  all  under  one.  Nor  could  a  genuine 
Methodist  gifted  with  poetical  powers  ever  be  a  poet  of 
Byron's  class.  The  same  thing  may  be  said  of  others  who 
have  lived  to  be  poets,  poets  by  profession,  and  nothing 
higher.  "They,"  as  was  once  said,  "  do  not  comprehend  the 
deep  and  lofty  mysteries  of  Poetry.  They  have  not  dwelt  in 
her  heart,  nor  known  what  it  is  to  feel  her  power  burning  in 
every  pulse  of  the  spirit,  and  drawing  the  curtain  from  heaven, 
earth,  and  ocean,  to  show  the  resplendent  omnipresence  of 
beauty  and  love  beaming  from  the  face  of  God  over  them  all. 
Poetry  covered  them  with  her  flowers,  buried  them  in 
showers  of  gems,  but  sealed  from  their  eyes  that  one  simple 
magic  pearl  of  white,  immortal  truth,  which  God  has  set  in 
her  bosom  as  the  richest  of  all  caskets.  Some  of  them  with 
half-open  eyes,  pore  dreamily  over  the  great  secret,  or  seem 
to  have  their  finger  trembling  on  the  very  spring  of  that 
portal,  which  but  once  opened,  admits  the  true  poet  to  gaze 
upon  the  universal  landscape  as  with  angel's  eyes."  Some 
poets  show  large  Christian  knowledge  and  reverent  feeling  5 
and  yet  for  them  to  have  conformed  to  the  principles,  the 
simple  aim,  and  spiritual  pursuits  of  Methodism  would  pro- 
bably have  been  to  put  a  final  check  to  that  wide  expatiation 
of  genius,  that  undevout  indulgence  of  imagination,  and  that 
morbid  intercourse  with  self  which  have  secured  for  them  all 
their  distinction.  No,  Methodism,  while  she  is  faithful  to 
her  first  principles  and  one  design,  can  never  boast  of  any 
poets  but  such  as  sing  to  help  her  devotion,  or  serve  to 
illustrate  her  rule  of  holiness,  or  to  inspirit  her  in  her  labours, 


10  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

or  to  console  her  by  unfolding  the  beauty  of  her  prospects 
and  the  consummation  of  her  design.  The  poets  of 
Methodism  are  mostly  of  this  class.  And  it  may  be  said 
that  the  fruits  of  her  consecrated  genius  are  mainly  such  as 
might  come  from  spirits  who  have  been  able  to  adopt  as  their 
own  the  motto  of  a  reverend  "pilgrim  "  "  I  have  nothing,  I 
am  nothing,  I  desire  nothing  but  Jesus  and  Jerusalem  ";  or 
the  tuneful  words  which  have  been  accepted  by  Methodist 
hymnists  from  the  songs  of  a  saintly  French  woman — 

Henceforth  may  no  profane  delight 

Divide  this  consecrated  soul  ; 
Possess  it  Thou  who  hast  the  right, 

As  Lord  and  Master  of  the  whole. 

Thy  gifts,  if  call'd  for,  I  resign, 

Pleased  to  receive,  pleased  to  restore : 

Gifts  are  Thy  work  ;  it  shall  be  mine 
The  Giver  only  to  adore. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  that  these  remarks  on  Methodist 
poets  in  general  are  in  any  way  intended  to  form  an  apology 
for  them  in  the  presence  of  poets  of  another  class.  Poetry 
like  theirs  needs  no  apology,  at  least  among  Christians.  If  on 
a  review  of  their  works  all  varieties  of  poetic  power  are  found  j 
if  the  highest  degree  of  that  power  sometimes  makes  itself 
felt ;  if  all  the  essentials  of  poetry  show  themselves  ;  if  the 
distinctive  genius  and  spirit,  the  imagination  and  fancy,  the 
facility  and  flexibility  of  thought  and  language,  the  deep 
sympathy  with  nature,  the  instinctive  insight  into  the  depths 
of  human  feeling,  the  order,  taste,  sense  of  beauty  and  of 
music,  the  spirit  of  harmony,  and  precise  but  full  and  various 
expression  —  if  all  these  manifest  themselves  as  they  do 
among  the  poets  of  Methodism,  these  poets  may  take  their 
stand  among  their  peers  without  any  further  introduction. 
But  if  all  these  qualities  are  theirs  ;  and,  combined  in  fair 
proportions,  have  been  faithfully  used  as  God's  gifts  in  pro- 
moting the  spiritual  holiness,  the  mental  renovation,  the 
social  purity,  and  the  final  triumphs  of  Christ's  kingdom  ; 
the  Divine  sanctions  add  dignity  to  their  charms.  Their 
poetry,  so  largely  devotional,  has  put  forth  its  beauty  and  life 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  II 

under  an  inspiration  which  associates  it  with  the  happiest 
thoughts  of  daily  Christian  life,  the  deepest  joys,  the  richest 
grace,  and  the  most  jubilant  victories  of  individual  saints  and 
Christian  churches  throughout  the  world.  If  true  •'  Poetry 
is  the  religious  idea  incarnate  in  the  beautiful,"  then  the 
poets  of  Methodism  may  take  a  high  rank  among  true  poets. 

"  But  have  the  Methodists  ever  written  anything  but 
hymns  ?  "  Yes,  some  of  them  have.  And  what,  if  they  had 
written  nothing  but  hymns  r  Their  hymns,  in  many  cases, 
have  become  world-wide  in  their  influence,  and  find  a 
welcome  from  growing  numbers  of  cultured  minds  and  pure 
hearts.  "Anything  but  hymns!"  Why,  none  but  a  true 
poet  could  produce  a  true  hymn.  A  genuine  hymn  is  a 
thing  of  beauty  and  diffusive  life  5  and  nothing  short  of 
hallowed  poetic  genius  could  bring  it  into  being.  A  hymn 
of  the  highest  order,  most  instinct  with  devout  life,  requires, 
however,  more  than  mere  poetic  genius  to  give  it  birth.  It 
requires  that  spiritual  taste,  that  sympathy  with  Heaven,  that 
pure  love  of  truth,  and  that  holy  familiarity  with  the  Divine 
source  of  inspiration,  without  which  the  hymn  will  lack  the 
undying  impress  of  the  Blessed  Spirit.  For  lack  of  all  this 
not  even  Milton  could  secure  for  his  psalms  a  permanent  life 
among  Christian  songs.  His  great  hymn,  the  "  Nativity 
Hymn,  '  had  so  much  of  Milton  in  it  that  it  failed  to  fulfil 
the  purpose  of  a  hymn,  as  it  fails  to  engage  Christian  hearts 
in  pure  and  unchecked  adoration  of  the  Incarnate  One. 
Methodist  poets  have  not  always  been  happy  as  hymnists. 
Some  of  their  hymns  take  a  lead  in  holy  song.  Others  were 
sung  for  the  last  time  when  their  authors  first  chanted  them 
to  themselves.  But,  on  the  whole,  the  devotional  and 
Godward  poetic  utterances  of  Methodism  promise  to  live 
permanently  among  the  things  which  reverent  genius,  pure 
taste,  and  truthful  hearts  will  ever  appreciate  and  enjoy. 

"The  poets  of  Methodism  !  Do  you  include  the  little 
rhyme  factors  and  makers  of  jingling  ditties  which  have 
sprung  up  and  given  voice  now  and  then  in  the  course  of  the 
Methodist  history  ?  " 


12  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Certainly  not.  Though  even  these  may  have  a  passing  notice 
asamusingphenomena.  The  "poetry  "pages  of  theold Metho- 
dist magazines  were  not  always  free  from  verses  whose  only 
virtue  was  the  ring  of  their  rhyme.  The  editors  were,  perhaps, 
at  times  too  indulgent  to  their  contributors — more  tender 
over  young  essayists  in  verse  than  careful  of  their  own  repu- 
tation for  taste,  although,  it  may  be,  these  very  rhymes 
served  to  increase  the  popularity  which  distinguished  the 
original  Methodist  serial.  The  earlier  issues  were  certainly 
more  suited  to  the  Methodist  multitude,  and  were  more 
enjoyed  by  the  many  than  the  modern  continuation  of  the 
periodical  seems  to  be. 

More  or  less  of  oral  rhyme,  too,  has  always  been  afloat 
among  Methodists.  Now  and  then  some  zealous,  though  un- 
cultured, brother  or  sister  has  been  known  to  start  up  under 
rhyming-  inspiration  and  set  all  like-minded  fellow-worship- 
pers a  singing  at  the  poet's  dictation.  Many  a  ditty  never 
submitted  to  an  "editor"  has  become  more  popular  in  its 
oral  form  than  it  would  have  been  as  shut  up  in  print.  We 
once  attended  service  in  a  little  rural  chapel  on  a  Devonshire 
moorland.  At  the  close  of  the  sermon,  just  as  the  preacher 
was  about  to  give  out  the  last  hymn,  a  good  woman,  taken 
with  the  spirit  of  spontaneous  song,  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
shouted — 

"  Loner  metre  ! 


a 


"  There's  bread  and  fish  for  you  and  me, 
And  plenty  more  for  two  and  three  ; 
Your  empty  baskets  you  may  bring, 
And  gr-ather  all  the  fragments  in." 


Long-  metre  ! 


■q 


The  preacher  sat  down  and  patiently  waited  till  the  ode, 
of  about  twelve  verses,  was  sung  through,  with  swelling 
effect,  under  the  guidance  of  the  enthusiastic  woman.  The 
first  verse  was  by  no  means  an  unfair  specimen  of  the  many 
which  followed. 

Not  very  far  from  the  scene  of  this  inspiring  performance, 
a  still  more  stirring  ditty  and  chorus  had  served  to  move  the 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  1$ 

spiritual  warriors  to  the  combat  "  against  principalities  and 

powers,"  as  if  they  battled  with  "  flesh  and  blood."    "  Come, 

neighbours  !  "  was  the  war  song, 

Come,  neighbours,  with  your  sticks  and  stones, 
And  break  the  Devil's  back  and  bones,  . 

And  send  him  to  hell  with  bitter  groans, 
And  we  shall  gain  the  union. 

After  all,  this  fondness  for  rude,  ringing  rhymes  and  jingling 
choruses  may  be  the  lingering  taste  which  has  been  begotten 
and  cherished  by  Church  authority.  Sternhold  and  Hopkins 
taught  their  generation  to  sing, 

When  Israel  by  God's  command 

From  Pharaoh's  land  was  bent ; 
And  Jacob's  home  the  strangers  left 
And  in  the  same  tram  went. 

"The  Ep  worth  people,"  said  their  Rector,  Samuel  Wesley, 
"must  be  contented  with  their  present  parochial  way  of 
singing.  Indeed  they  must  also  be  content  with  their  Grand- 
sire  Sternhold.  Bishop  Beveridge  declared  that  the  common 
people  could  understand  the  psalms  of  Sternhold  better  than 
those  of  Tate  and  Brady.  And  there  may  be  truth  in  this, 
for  the  common  people  have  a  strange  genius  for  understand- 
ing nonsense." 

But  David  was  done  into  English  metre  by  other  hands, 
still  more  rude.  Grave  and  educated  congregations  used  to 
psalm  it  thus — 

'Tis  like  the  precious  ointment 
Down  Aaron's  beard  did  go 


Down  Aaron's  beard  it  downward  went 
His  garment  skirts  unto. 


Or  thus— 


Why  dost  thou  hold  thine  hand  aback 

And  hide  it  in  thy  lap  ? 
O  pluck  it  out  and  be  not  slack 

To  give  thy  foes  a  rap. 

Solomon  as  well  as  David  has  been  made  to  foot  it  to 
Church  music,  so — 

The  race  is  not  for  ever  got 
By  him  who  fastest  runs  ; 
Nor  the  battle  by  the  people 
Who  shoot  the  longest  guns. 


14  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Dr.  Belcher,  an  American  authority  in  psalm  literature, 
says,  "  From  the  hymns  in  use  before  the  days  of  Watts, 
here  is  a  specimen  verse ;  and  though  our  readers  may  smile 
at  it,  their  fathers  did  not — 

"  Ye  monsters  of  the  bubbling  deep, 

Your  Maker's  praises  shout ; 
Up  from  the  sands,  ye  codlings,  peep, 

And  wag  your  tails  about." 

Dr.  Watts  seems  to  have  been  the  first  to  break  in  upon 

this  serio-comic  style  of  devotional  song ;  and,  in  his  own 

way,  to  lead  Christian  voices  up   into   nobler  and  sweeter 

harmonies.     Yet,  for  a  long  time  those  voices  were  loth  to 

sacrifice    the    old    measures    in    favour    of    the    new   ones. 

Attempts  were   occasionally  made,  in  America  at  least,  to 

improve  on  Watts  by  bringing  him  back  into  something  like 

conformity  to   old  fashions.      An    old    correspondent   from 

Connecticut  tells  us  that  the  leading  singer  in  one  of  the 

churches  thought  he  could  better  the  music  and  the  poetry 

of  their  psalms.      He   set  Watts's  ninety-second  psalm  to 

music  of  his  own  ;  but  found  that  to  make  the  music  and 

the  verse  accord,  he  must  substitute  his  own  finer  lines  for 

those  of  Watts — 

Oh,  let  my  heart  in  time  be  found 
Like  Datid's  harp  of  solemn  sound. 

He  waited  on  the  Pastor  to  submit  his  improved  version 

and  music,  and  proposed  to  sing — 

Oh,  may  my  heart  be  tuned  within 
Like  David's  sacred  violin. 

The  Pastor,  who  was  a  little  waggish,  found  his  gravity 

severely  tested ;    but,  maintaining  a   becoming  dignity,  he 

suggested    an    improvement    even    on   the    singer's   'great 

improvement.'     "  Pray  let  me  hear  what  you  propose,"  said 

the  flattered  poet.    The  minister  scribbled  two  lines  for  him, 

thus — 

Oh,  may  my  heart  go  diddle,  diddle, 
Like  uncle  David's  sacred  fiddle. 

Watts  was   rescued ;    and  the  would-be  restorer  of  old 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  l5 

metrical  psalmody  was  content  for  the  future  to  allow  that 
the  new  rhyming  was  better  than  the  old. 

Doggrel,  then,  is  not  peculiar  to  Methodism.  It  was 
patronized  in  the  Church  of  England,  the  Kirk  of  Scotland, 
and  among  English  Presbyterians  long  before  Methodism 
began  her  songs.  Methodism,  at  all  events,  has  never 
patronized  or  sanctioned  the  use  of  doggrel  in  worship. 
Never,  we  say ;  but  just  now  one  verse  occurs  which  may  be 
deemed  an  exception.  A  Methodist  preacher,  in  the  use  of 
his  authorized  "Hymn  Book,"  may  call  on  his  congregation 
to  glorify  their  Divine  Master  by  singing — 

No  matter  how  dull 

The  scholar  that  He 
Takes  unto  His  school 

And  gives  him  to  see — 

John  Wesley  sanctioned  this  by  issuing  it  for  Methodist 
use.  But  there  was  always  a  redeeming  provision.  Should 
there  be  a  bald  place  in  the  hymn,  or  a  rhyme  so  homely  as 
to  be  akin  to  doggrel,  he  always  secured  music  of  sufficient 
spirit  and  power  to  carry  the  singing  multitude  above  any 
feeling  of  weakness.  This  redeeming  provision,  however,  is 
not  always  to  be  found  associated  with  more  modern  Church 
doggrel.  Even  those  who  affect  the  highest  culture  of  choral 
harmony  may  be  found  singing — 

My  God,  I  love  Thee,  not  because 

I  hope  for  heaven  thereby, 
Nor  yet  because  who  love  Thee  not 

Must  burn  eternally — 

and  rendering   such  rhymes,  too,  in  tunes  or    dronings   so 

expressionless  that  the  choir  might  seem 

to  lie  in  shady  cloister  mew'd 
Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold,  fruitless  moon. 

While  in  another  quarter,  in  a  manner  neither  "  ancient  "  nor 
"modern,"  people  have  been  heard  singing  by  the  water- 
side— 

O  tarry  not — your  Lord  obey ; 

And  be  baptized  without  delay  : 

Nor  ever  think  of  coming  here 

Unless  you  are  a  volunteer. 


l6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Methodism,  then,  is  not  to  be  the  scape-goat.  All  the 
halting  verses  and  ragged  rhymes  are  not  to  be  considered  as 
the  burden  of  her  tongue.  If  some  of  her  simple,  warm- 
hearted people  have,  now  and  then,  given  out  such  utterances, 
it  has  been  generally  by  the  bye,  and  on  their  personal 
responsibility.  And  if  they  have  been  personally  happy 
under  such  inspirations,  or  if  their  rhymes  have  chimed  in 
with  their  fellow-worshippers'  taste  and  feeling  for  the  time, 
it  has  only  served  to  remind  us  that  unsophisticated  human 
nature,  when  most  excited,  always  shows  itself  ready  to 
throw  out  its  expressions  of  passion  in  some  rhythmical  or 
metrical  form.  The  rhymes,  however  rude,  show  that  the 
original  gift  of  poesy  continues  to  be  represented  among 
men,  and  sometimes  gives  signs  of  life  even  where  there  is 
the  least  culture.  It  doubtless  helps  to  solace  the  poor 
rhymer  when  he  finds  his  measures  flowing  in  spite  of 
circumstances ;  and  where  the  rhyming  power  is  turned  to 
the  service  of  religion,  the  solace  is  all  the  more  sweet,  and 
is  not  only  innocent,  but  mentally  and  morally  beneficial. 

While  John  Wesley  was  conducting  public  worship  in  one 
of  his  chapels,  his  ear  became  uneasy  under  the  discordant 
voice  of  an  old  woman  who  was,  in  her  way,  singing  with 
the  congregation.  The  fine-eared  Methodist  apostle  stopped 
at  length,  and  gently  said,  "  My  good  sister,  you  are  singing 
out  of  tune."  "  My  heart  is  singing,  sir  !  "  was  the  prompt 
reply.  "Then,  sing  on,  my  sister  !  "  was  the  final  decision 
of  the  preacher.  Rude  rhymes  may  provoke  the  smile  of 
finely-tuned  people,  or  prove  instruments  of  passing  torture 
to  others  5  but  better  let  the  rhymers  "  sing  on"  than  let 
them  lose  the  joy  of  singing  in  the  best  way  they  can.  If 
jingling  ditties  form  their  highest  and  happiest  mode  of 
expressing  their  devotion,  let  them  rhyme  it,  till  they  rhyme 
it  better  in  a  better  world. 

In  the  course  of  her  history,  however,  Methodism  has  had 
poets,  as  courtesy  has  called  them,  or  as  they  have  thought 
themselves  to  be  —  spirits  of  higher  pretensions  than  the 
mere  impromptu  authors  of  oral  psalms  or  hymns.  "  Poems  " 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  I  7 

have  now  and  then  been  issued,  "  Chimes  "  have  been  set  a 
going ;  and  on  these  some  well-meaning  but  mistaken  souls 
have  staked  their  mental  and  literary  character.  An  interview 
with  one  of  these  line-stringers,  some  years  ago,  will  never 
be  forgotten.  It  was  an  evening  gathering  of  friends,  some 
of  whom  were  distinguished  for  learning,  intellectual  power, 
and  refined  taste.  The  inspired  or  rather  inflated  poetizer 
had  just  sent  his  book  into  the  world ;  and  now  he  was 
evidently  disposed  to  press  his  effusions  on  the  attention  of 
the  guests.  He  began  by  claiming  acquaintance  with  a 
venerable  literary  man,  and  first  throwing  a  glance  around, 
and  then  giving  the  old  student  a  significant  look,  he  said,  in 
a  tone  which  rose  above  all  other  voices, 

"  When  I  returned  from  my  journey  to  the  tropics,  I  pre- 
sented a  native-grown  stick  to  Mr. accompanied  with 

verses  expressive  of  my  esteem ;  did  I  not,  Sir  ?  do  you 
remember  r  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  fine  old  man  with  a  waggish  look,  "I 
remember,  it  was  a  very  pretty  stick  !  " 

Not  feeling  this  stroke,  or,  if  feeling  it,  not  discouraged, 
he  turned  to  another  who  was  near  him,  a  man  of  remarkable 
taste,  massive  in  his  knowledge,  and  a  deep  thinker, 

"  Have  you  seen  my  volume  of  poems  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  I  should  like  your  opinion  of  it.  Will  you  let  me  give 
you  a  bit  by  way  of  sample  ? " 

"  Yes  j  but  you  must  speak  up  •  I  am  rather  deaf." 

The  poet  began,  and  his  voice  swelled  as  his  spirit  kindled 
with  the  measure 

Oh  she's  dead ! — but  she's  gone  to  the  home  of  the  good, 

She  dwells  in  a  palace  royal, 
O'er-past  has  her  spirit  cold  Jordan's  flood, 

And  escaped  from  the  land  of  trial. 

"  Stay !  "  said  the  listener,  "  before  you  go  on,  tell  me 
what  poetry  is.'' 

There  was  silence. — The  poet  had  never  defined  to  him- 
self what  he  affected  to  produce.     He  was  evidently  at  a 

c 


l8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

loss.  But  before  he  could  well  recover  himself,  the  other 
continued,  "  If  you  cannot  tell  me  what  poetry  is,  I  am 
sure  it  is  not  for  me  to  define  it  to  you  ;  but  listen,  I  will 
give  you  a  specimen  of  true  poetry.'' — Then  with  beautiful 
intonation  and  touching  emphasis  he  quoted — "  Consider 
the  lilies  of  the  field,  how  they  grow  :  they  toil  not,  neither 
do  they  spin.  And  yet  I  say  unto  you  that  even  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these." — "  Now,  Sir," 
he  added,  "  that  is  poetry  j  compare  that  with  your  own, 
and  say  no  more." 

The  rebuke  was  effective,  and  the  hush  that  followed  gave 
birth  to  thoughts  and  feelings  which  have  been  fruitful  to 
this  day. 

And,  yet,  mere  rhymers  and  chimers  have  continued  to 
give  voice  from  time  to  time.  A  check  upon  one  does  not 
hush  the  voice  of  another.  Now,  we  have  the  affectation  of 
a  lengthy  "  Poem"  on  "the  Birth  of  Christ,"  for  instance, 
"  that  the  virtuous,  or  at  least  the  young,"  as  the  author 
says,  may  be  benefited  by  hearing  him  tell  how  the 
Saviour 

Should  lift  the  captive  from  the  dungeon  up, 
And  rescue  all  the  prisoners  of  hope  ! 

And  then,  from  another  quarter  we  have  tender  tinklings, 
as  sweetly  innocent  of  poetic  genius  as  the  pretty  chimes 
from  a  country  church  tower  on  a  Sabbath  morning — sound 
— imitative  sound — with  no  living  native  breath  of  harmony, 
proving  by  its  freshness  that  it  is  the  gush  of  a  poet's  own 
life.  But,  after  all,  Methodism  has  its  genuine  poets ;  that  is 
to  say,  men  and  women  of  original  and  originating  genius, 
whose  music,  though  not,  in  some  cases,  without  discords, 
has  life  in  it  which  will  continue  to  awaken  answering  har- 
monies when  oblivion  has  for  ever  covered  those  who  end  as 
well  as 

begin  with  their  Jingle  (or  Rattle 
As  some  of  them  call  it)  the  delicate  battle. 

It  is  hoped  that  the  following  pages  may  serve  to  lead  their 


INTRODUCTORY    CHAPTER.  1(J 

readers  into  pleasant  communion  with  true  Methodist  Bards, 
and  help  to  make  them  happily  familiar  with  "  Fathers  of 
Poets,"  "Epworth  Singers,"  "Brothers  in  Song,''  "Clerical 
Song-Masters,"  "Itinerant Minstrels,''  "Lay Singers,"  "Choirs 
of  Holy  Women,''  "Poetical  Divines,''  "Tuneful  Metaphy- 
sicians," "Latter-day  Clerical  Hymnists,"  "Poetical  Satirists," 
"  Musical  Sons  of  Prophets,"  "  Inspired  Young  Maidens," 
"  Bards  of  Cornwall  and  Kent,"  "  Some  of  the  Latest  Sons  of 
Song,"  and,  indeed,  all  that  are  fairly  known  as  "The  Poets 
of  Methodism." 


20  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER    II. 

FATHERS     OF      POETS. 

To  unseen  realms  the  elders  urge  their  flight, 
And  prophets  vanish  in  a  car  of  light ; 
Yet  still  the  plenteous  unction  ceaseless  flows, 
Jehovah's  hand  the  needful  gift  bestows. 

[AN  is,  what  he  knows."  This  may  mean  not 
only  that  the  kind  and  degree  of  man's 
knowledge  gives  a  shaping  to  his  character, 
but  that  the  measure  of  one  man's  real 
knowledge  is  the  standard  of  his  value  and 
use  to  another.  Something  like  an  illustration  of  this  lives 
among  recollections  of  early  travels.  It  was  early  on  a 
spring  morning.  The  "Guard"  cried,  "take  your  seats, 
gentlemen  !  V  as  he  stood  ready  to  take  his.  Another 
moment,  and  we  were  off ;  not  on  the  rails,  no,  but  behind 
the  beautiful  team  of  a  fast  coach  which  then  ran  from 
Exeter  through  Dorset.  As  we  left  the  suburbs  of  the  old 
city,  the  merry  tramp  of  the  horses  was  cheerily  in  tune,  as 
a  kind  of  castanet  accompaniment,  to  the  music  of  the 
Guard's  bugle.  We  dashed  along  gaily  through  rich  varia- 
tions of  scene.  Now,  standing,  as  the  coach  reached  the 
pitch  of  the  hill  above  Honiton,  to  look  back  on  the  lovely 
vale  in  which  so  many  fair  lace-makers  once  plied  their 
skilful  hands  at  their  cottage  doors ;  and  now,  stopping  to 
salute  old  Axminster  dreamily  reposing  by  the  side  of  her 
own  little  river.  At  length  we  crossed  the  border  into 
Dorset.  Among  the  travellers,  there  was  one  to  whom,  up 
to  this  time,  it  seemed  in  vain   to  appeal.    He  was   muffled 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  21 

up  ;   and  was  evidently  indisposed  to  respond  to  any  remark 
or  question  from   a  fellow  traveller.     No  fine  turn  of  the 
road,  no  sudden   unfolding   of  prospect,  no  bit  of  flowery 
hedge-row,   no   charm   of  cottage  home  or  village  had  any 
attractive  power  for  him,  as  far  as  could  be  seen.     A  short 
"  Yes,"  or  "  No  "  was  his  only  word.    There  was  a  cold  and 
somewhat  forbidding  look  of  absence,  passing,  at  times,  into 
an    expression   of  pain  or  distress.     He  seemed  to    know 
nothing.     And  it  was   silently  decided,  at  last,  that  he  was 
nothing,  nothing  of  any  worth  to  his  companions  on   the 
coach,  at  all  events.     For  it  must  be  remembered  that  coach 
travelling  was  a,  far  more   sociable  and  conversational  thing 
than   our  present  mode  of  getting  conveyed,  like  goods  and 
chattels,    by   rail.        It   allowed    people,   too,    to   hear   one 
another's   natural  voice.       So  that  a  coach   traveller    could 
scarcely  maintain  a  persistent    silence   without    danger    of 
being  thought  too  ignorant,  too  rude,  too  stupid,  or  too  con- 
temptibly proud  to  speak.      Our  road  now  began  to   decline 
from  the  heights  above  Lyme  Regis ;  and  it  was  evident, 
from  the  prospect  which  was  opening  beneath,  that  our  way 
down  would  be  steep  and  critical.     Just   at  this  point,  how- 
ever, our  muffled  mope. who  had  been  so  impenetrably  en- 
trenched within  himself  gave  signs  of   change.     His  face 
more  fully   disclosed    itself;  i  a  little    freshness   seemed   to 
spring  up  and  pass  over  it ;  the  rigidity  left  his  lips ;  and  it 
was  felt  that  his  eye  seemed  ready  to  speak  before  his  tongue 
gave  voice.     Indeed  there  was  a  kindling  light  in  his  eye 
which  awakened  a  wish  to  hear  him  speak.     The  coach  was 
now  requiring  all  the  skill   and  power  of  the  driver  to  guide 
it  down  into  the  depth  which  yawned  beneath  us. 

One  who  sat  next  to  the  strangely  quickened  traveller 
cried  at  length,  "  Where  in  the  world  are  we  going  ?  " 

"  Going  !  "  said  the  one  whose  mouth  was  now  open  as 
well  as  his  face,  "  we  are  going  down  into  the  hole  which  so 
very  nearly  proved  a  trap-hole  for  that  runaway  ragamuffin, 
Charles  Stuart,  the  Second.  It  is  a  hallowed  spot,  sir.  It 
would  have  been  more  sacred  to  England,  perhaps,  had  it 


22  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

witnessed  the  handcuffing  rather  than  the  escape  of  the 
graceless  fugitive.  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  hallowed  spot. 
That,'"  continued  he,  pointing  to  a  village  rising  from  the 
base  of  the  hill,  "  that  is  '  the  hole  of  the  pit '  whence  was 
dug  that  gifted  and  divinely  marked  family  for  which  Eng- 
land and  the  world  owes  God  an  ever  accumulating  debt  of 
gratitude.  That  is  Charmouth,  sir ;  the  earliest  home,  as 
far  as  we  can  trace,  of  the  Wesley  family." 

By  this  time,  we  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and 
had  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  little  rustic  inn.  And  now 
onr  friend  with  the  loosened  tongue  became  enthusiastic. 

"  It  was  near  this  spot,  I  suppose,"  said  he,  "that  the 
wretched  Charles,  under  the  care  of  his  companion,  Lord 
Wilmot,  spent  the  night  in  watching  for  the  arrival  of  the 
boat  that  was  to  take  them  from  the  creek  below  to  the  craft 
bound  for  the  French  coast.  And  up  there  in  the  village 
must  have  been  the  little  chapel  into  which  he  sneaked  to 
prevent  suspicions,  and  where  he  heard  Bartholomew  Wesley 
hold  forth  in  what  a  rollicking  royalist  called,  '  his  long- 
breathed  devotions  and  bloody  prayers.'  That  Bartholomew 
Wesley  was  the  '  puny  parson  of  the  place,'  as  some  called 
him  j  true  to  his  post ;  ready  to  feed  his  flock  as  a  pastor,  or 
to  work  at  the  spinning  wheel,  as  St.  Paul  did  at  tent- 
making,  to  eke  out  his  pittance,  by  making  home-spun  hose 
and  doublets  for  himself.  The  village  smith  had  reported 
that  the  strangers'  horses  were  shod  in  a  foreign  style,  and 
the  parson  thought  that  one  rider,  at  least,  must  be  the  pro- 
scribed Stuart ;  and,  as  in  duty  bound,  he  left  his  chapel 
service  to  catechise  the  inn-keeper.  But,  alas  !  it  was  too  late ; 
the  game  was  gone.  It  was  a  pity.  But  with  all  his  alleged 
puritanical  gravity,  he  had  good  humour  enough  to  joke  over 
it.  '  I  am  sure,'  said  he  to  a  friend,  '  that  if  ever  the  king 
come  back  he  will  be  certain  to  love  long  prayers ;  for  if  I 
had  not  been  at  that  time  longer  than  ordinary  at  devotion,  I 
should  surely  have  snapt  him.'  " 

"  What  would  have  come  of  it,  if  the  parson  had  '  snapt 
him'?"    asked    one  of   the  travellers.    "Into  what  groove 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  23 

would  the  history  of  England  have  run  ?  Would  your 
Wesley  family  ever  have  been  '  divinely  marked  '  ?  Would 
they  have  appeared  at  all  ?  Would  they  have  placed  e  Eng- 
land and  the  world  under  a  debt  of  gratitude  to  God  '  ?  " 

"I  can't  tell,"  was  the  reply,  "how  mysteriously  the  course 
of  human  generations  have  been  made  to  hang  upon  a  few 
minutes  continuation  of  prayer,  or  upon  the  fitting  of  a 
horse-shoe  a  few  minutes  sooner  or  later ;  I  think,  however, 
that  if  that  heartless  prince  had  been  '  snapt '  by  Bartholomew 
Wesley,  neither  the  good  Rector  nor  his  son  John  would 
have  had  to  endure  so  much  bitter  suffering  from  the  Church 
which  acknowledged  Charles  Stuart  at  its  head." 

Just  at  this  moment  there  came  an  old  man  asking  the 
coach  passengers  to  buy  his  prawns  which  he  held  out 
temptingly  on  a  plate. 

"  Oh,"  said  our  now  interesting  companion,  "  this  is  the 
place  for  prawns.  They  were  coming  to  this  creek  long 
before  Bartholomew  Wesley  was  made  Rector  in  1640  3  and 
they  have  been  coming  ever  since  ;  affording  meals  to  many 
a  cottage  home  from  generation  to  generation.  John  Wesley, 
the  grandfather  of  the  great  Oxford  Methodist,  must  have 
been  a  boy  running  about  here  soon  after  1640  ;  and  I  dare 
say,  like  many  a  boy  used  to  catching  prawns  in  the  tidal 
pools,  he  used  to  prove  himself  equal  to  the  task  of  garnish- 
ing the  poor  Rector's  table,  now  and  then  in  the  season, 
with  a  little  dish-full  quite  as  large  and  delicious  as  these." 

The  prawns  were  demolished,  and  as  the  coach  crept  up 
the  opposite  hill,  one  traveller,  at  least,  was  trying  to  get  at 
the  secret  of  this  wonderful  change  in  the  manner  of  the 
gentleman  who  had  so  long  shut  himself  up  within  himself. 
The  problem  was  at  last  good-naturedly  solved.  The  man 
in  his  unaccountable  mood  had  been  undergoing  a  kind  of 
periodical  attack  of  physical  suffering,  which  was  intensely 
aggravated  by  the  necessary  effort  to  conceal  his  agony.  The 
paroxysm  had  passed  just  as  the  coach  crossed  the  border  of 
Dorset ;  and  the  restored  freedom  of  body  and  mind  had 
resulted  in  the  fresh  flow  of  spirits  with  which  he  entered  on 


24  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

the  historical  associations  of  Charmouth.  In  Devon,  he  was 
accounted  nothing,  and  had  credit  for  knowing  nothing.  In 
Dorset,  his  knowledge,  and  his  pleasant  mode  of  using  it, 
made  him  every  thing  to  his  fellow  travellers  for  the  rest  of 
the  journey.  So  that,  after  all,  "  man  is  what  he  knows.'* 
A  lesson  had  been  given  to  some,  at  all  events,  on  the  duty  of 
abstaining  from  hasty  judgment  as  to  the  character  and 
knowledge  of  those  who  may  sometimes  be  silent  fellow 
travellers. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  a  little  more  about  the  Wesleys  of 
Charmouth,"  some  one  said,  as  we  approached  the  top  of 
the  hill. 

"  Well,  it  is  a  story  that  can  be  but  partly  told,  for  much 
of  it  is  lost,"  said  the  oracle  of  the  party,  calling  us  to  look 
back  a  moment  or  two.  "  You  have  seen  the  hamlet  in  the 
valley ;  yonder  on  the  hill  is  another  of  Bartholomew  Wesley's 
pastorates,  Catherston,  which  was  given  him  in  charge 
about  1650.  In  these  parishes  he  served,  using  great  plain- 
ness of  speech,  and  edifying  his  flock  without  any  sparkle  of 
what  is  called  popularity.  He  lived  there  to  see  his  son 
John  pass  through  his  university  training  in  Oxford  ;  undergo 
his  examination  successfully  before  the  Parliamentary 
'  Triers ' ;  enter  on  his  work  as  a  preacher  among  the 
villages  on  the  coast  yonder,  near  Weymouth  j  take  the 
pastoral  charge  of  Winterborn- Whitchurch  ;  become  a  com- 
panion with  himself  in  tribulation  under  the  Act  of 
Uniformity,  on  Bartholomew  day  1662  5  and  then  pass  away 
in  comparatively  early  life,  worn  out  by  persecution,  priva- 
tion, sorrow,  and  toil.  The  old  man  never  entirely  threw  orF 
the  painful  effect  of  his  bereavement.  The  law  would  not 
allow  him  to  preach  5  but  he  seized  every  opportunity  of 
fulfilling  his  sacred  mission  ;  while  to  gain  a  livelihood  he 
practiced  physic,  calling  into  exercise,  at  last,  the  knowledge 
which  he  had  gathered  as  a  medical  student  at  Oxford.  He 
did  not  live  long  to  endure  the  disabilities  and  oppressions  to 
which  he  and  his  nonconforming  neighbours  were  cruelly 
subjected.     He  soon   met  his   martyred  son  again  in  their 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  2$ 

new  inviolable  home.  Charles  Wesley  might  have  felt  some- 
thing like  an  inherited  share  in  his  great  grandfather's  latest 
thoughts  and  feelings,  when  he  wrote  one  of  his  hymns  on 
'  Preparation  for  Death.'  The  plaintive  desire  for  rest,  and 
the  longing  hopefulness  of  the  old  weary  confessor  are   finely 

uttered — 

"  Hide  me  by  Thy  presence,  Lord, 

From  the  dire  infectious  race, 
From  the  men  Thou  call'st  Thy  sword, 

From  the  gale  of  bitterness, 
From  the  strife  of  tongues  conceal, 
Tongues  inflamed  with  fire  of  hell. 
In  Thy  tabernacle  keep 

Till  I  bow  my  weary  head 
Close  my  eyes  in  lasting  sleep 

Sink  among  the  quiet  dead, 
Where  the  world  no  more  molest, 
Where  the  weary  are  at  rest. 
Weary  of  contention  here 

Saviour,  to  Thy  arms  I  fly. 
Save  Thine  aged  messenger, 

Bid  me  get  me  up  and  die, 
Die  out  of  a  world  of  strife, 
Die  into  immortal  life. 
Made  by  pure  consummate  love 

Meet  and  ready  to  depart, 
Gladly  would  I  now  remove, 

See  Thee,  Saviour,  as  Thou  art, 
Cherished  in  Thy  loving  breast 
Lull'd  to  everlasting  rest." 

About  the  harvest  time  of  the  year  1683,  a  young  man 
footed  it  into  Oxford  from  London.  He  was  rather  short 
in  stature,  but  of  well  formed  and  muscular  figure.  His  face 
would  be  thought  handsome.  It  was  alive  with  genius, 
humour,  and  intelligence.  It  bore  the  stamp  of  calm  thought 
and  strong  decision.  And  an  observer  who  saw  him  tramp- 
ing over  the  bridge  which  spanned  the  Charwell,  with  all 
his  little  store  of  worldly  goods  on  his  back,  would  have 
seen  in  his  earnest  look,  the  will  and  the  power  to  bend 
himself  successfully  to  his  chosen  life-task.  Under  the 
vigorous  Vice  Chancellorship  of  Dr.  John  Owen,  the  old 
seat  of  learning  was,  by  this  time,  recovering  from  the  effect 
of  civil  war.     Broken  trees  were  removed  3  trampled  down 


l6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

gardens  were  putting  forth  new  beauty ;  broken  windows 
and  shattered  roofs  and  walls  were  repaired  ;  and  public  and 
private  ways  were  again  free  from  their  overgrowth  of 
bramble  and  weed.  Things  seemed  to  be  put  somewhat  in 
order  for  the  admission  of  Bartholomew  Wesley's  grandson, 
Samuel,  who,  without  a  friend  in  the  city,  and  scarcely  one 
any  where  else,  was  come  with  his  fortune  of  forty  five 
shillings  in  his  pocket,  resolved  to  work  his  way  to  academic 
honour,  or  to  perish  in  the  struggle.  When  but  an  infant  on 
his  mother's  breast,  he  was  driven  from  his  birth-place, 
Winterborn  Whitechurch  in  Dorset,  out  of  the  pastoral  care 
of  which  his  persecuted  nonconformist  father,  John  Wesley, 
was  cast  by  the  act  of  uniformity  in  1662.  His  parents,  by 
and  by,  notwithstanding  their  straits  and  perils,  managed  to 
secure  for  him  the  full  advantage  of  the  Dorchester  Grammar 
School.  On  the  premature  death  of  his  father,  he  had  been 
admitted  to  a  dissenting  academy  in  London,  first  at  Stepney 
and  then  at  Newington  Green  ;  where,  in  learning  to  defend 
the  ecclesiastical  system  of  Nonconformity,  he  learnt  to 
prefer  the  polity  of  the  Church  of  England.  And  now, 
having  broken  away  from  his  dissenting  friends,  the  poor 
fatherless  lad  paced  the  "  stream-like  windings  of  the  beau- 
tiful High  Street  of  Oxford,  beautiful  then  it  must  have  been. 
Did  he  linger  to  look  at  that  remarkable  porch  of  St.  Mary's 
then  of  recently  gained  significance,  with  its  virgin  and 
child,  set  up  by  the  obsequious  chaplain  of  the  unhappy  Laud,  in 
time  to  help  towards  relieving  his  master  of  his  imponderous 
head  ?  Wesley  must  have  heard  the  story  from  his  mother. 
Did  he  think  while  looking  up  at  that  porch  and  tower,  for 
the  first  time,  that  he  was  looking  at  the  church  in  which 
the  voices  of  his  sons  would  be  lifted  up  with  such  power 
and  effect  ?  Did  he  stop  to  regale  his  spirits  with  a  draught 
from  the  quaint  old  Carfax  Conduit,  which  then  stood  at  the 
corner  of  High  Street,  where  it  had  served  to  adorn  and 
refresh  the  city  ever  since  1590  ?  However  that  might  be, 
he  found  his  way  to  Exeter  College,  and  entered  it,  perhaps 
with  something  before  him  like  a  prophetic  looming  of  future 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  27 

success,  such  as  is  sometimes  caught  by  the  eye  of  conscious 
genius,  while  as  yet  it  is  unseen  by  all  others.  He  had 
passed  over  the  threshold  of  a  College  which  was  divided  by 
a  narrow  lane  only  from  Lincoln,  in  which  his  son  was  to 
attain  academic  distinction,  and  from  which  that  son  was  to 
go  prepared  to  face  at  once  the  cultured  and  the  unlearned 
world  in  fulfilling  the  apostolic  mission  of  his  life.  How 
mysteriously  places  are  sometimes  linked  at  certain  points  in 
their  history  !  and  how  close  though  subtle  may  be  the  re- 
lations between  the  turns  in  a  father's  life  and  the  bent  and 
issues  of  his  children's  action  ! 

Samuel  Wesley  began  his  college  life  at  the  right  point, 
— the  lowest  !  acting  on  the  wise  maxim  of  the  old  Jack- 
tar,  who  seeing,  for  the  first  time,  a  messmate  getting  into 
an  omnibus  of  modern  style,  cried,  "  Jack,  you  are  wrong  ! 
you  are  getting  in  at  the  stern  !  Get  in  at  the  bows,  I  say, 
and  work  your  way  up  to  the  quarter  deck !  "  Young 
Wesley  got  in  at  the  bows  ;  and  worked  his  way  up.  He 
was  admitted  as  pauper  scliolaris ;  and  became  a  serving 
man  to  his  richer  fellow  students,  that  he  might  get  bread 
for  his  outer  man,  while  his  inner  man  fed  on  the  learning- 
afforded  him  in  the  schools.  He  could  assist  those  who 
were  willing  to  pay  for  learning;  or  lift  those  into  place  who 
found  it  more  easy  to  pay  for  being  lifted  than  to  put  them- 
selves to  climbing  work.  There  are  always  men  enough  in 
Oxford  who  have  more  money  than  wit.  Wesley's  poverty 
was  perhaps  a  blessing.  It  was  more  of  a  stimulus  than  a 
check. 

"  Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity, 
Which,  like  the  toad  ugly  and  venomous, 
"Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head." 

Necessity  threw  him  upon  his  own  resources.  He  remem- 
bered his  school-day  essays  in  rhyme  ;  and^feeling  that  there 
was  power  within  him  still,  he  put  it  forth,  and  produced 
what  he  hoped  would  help  to  enrich  his  pocket,  while  it 
challenged  the  world's  estimate  of  his  genius.  His  first 
little  volume  appeared  as,  "  Maggots  ;  or,  Poems  on  several 


28  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Subjects  never  before  handled  ;  by  a  Scholar."  The  volume 
had  a  portrait  of  the  author,  represented  as  crowned  with 
laurel,  but  with  a  maggot  on  his  brow,  and  an  explanatory 
verse  beneath, 

In  his  own  defence  the  author  writes, 
Because  when  this  foul  maggot  bites, 

He  ne'er  can  rest  in  quiet : 
Which  makes  him  make  so  sad  a  face, 
He'd  beg  your  worship,  or  your  grace, 

Unsight,  unseen,  to  buy  it. 

This  first  outbreak  of  genius  showed,  for  the  most  part, 
the  mere  playful  and  witty  side  of  the  poet's  character ;  and 
is  valuable  chiefly  as  shewing  the  sprightly  elements  of  his 
power.  He  proves  himself  capable  of  scorching  satire 
against  the  fashionable  vices  of  his  times ;  though  he  con- 
forms too  frequently  to  the  fashion  himself,  by  using 
unchaste  words  in  reproving  unchaste  actions.  But  what 
can  be  expected  from  "Maggots  "?  True,  they  are,  as  he 
tells  us,  his  "  first  formed  birth,  the  natural  issue  of  his  own 
brain  pan,  born  and  bred  there,  and  only  there  3  "  yet,  the 
breed  would  not  naturally  find  very  general  entertainment, 
though  some  of  them  appeared  under  curious  titles.  "  A 
Ginger-bread  Mistress  "5  "A  Covetous  old  Fellow  "  ;  "A 
Bear-faced  Lady  "5  "A  Tame  Snake  in  a  box  of  Bran  " ; 
"A  Certain  Nose";  "A  Leather  Bottle";  "A  Cow's 
Tail  "  3  and  "  A  Tobacco  Pipe,"  might  be  rare  specimens  of 
"  Maggots  "  ;  but  probably  most  critics  will  think  that  they 
were  not  least  kindly  thought  about  when  they  were  thought 
to  have  found  a  home  in  Pope's  "  Dunciad." 

Here  she  beholds  the  chaos  dark  and  deep, 

Where  nameless  somethings  in  their  causes  sleep, 

'Till  genial  Jacob,  or  a  warm  third  day 

Calls  forth  each  mass,  a  poem  or  a  play. 

How  hints,  like  spawn,  scarce  quick  in  embryo  lie  1 

How  new-born  nonsense  first  is  taught  to  cry  ! 

Maggots  half  form'd,  in  rhyme,  exactly  meet, 

And  learn  to  crawl  upon  poetic  feet  ! 

Here  one  poor  word  a  hundred  clench'es  makes, 

And  ductile  dulness  new  meanders  takes ; 

There  mothy  images  her  fancy  strike, 

Figures  ill-pair'd,  and  similes  unlike. 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  29 

Samuel  Wesley's  first  volume  was  published  by  the  crack- 
brained  genius  and  book-worm,  Dunton,  whose  publishing 
shop,  near  the  Exchange,  bore  the  sign  of  "The  Black 
Raven."  He  gave  to  the  world  a  flattering  description  of 
his  own  person  and  character,  telling  us  that  his  modesty  was 
more  than  usually  great,  and  then  saying,  "  I  have  all  those 
good  qualities  that  are  necessary  to  render  me  an  accom- 
plished gentleman."  He  fell  out  with  Samuel  Wesley, 
however,  after  the  death  of  his  beautiful  wife,  who  was  Mrs. 
Wesley's  sister ;  and  then  turned  the  laugh  against  his 
brother-in-law,  telling  the  world  that  he  had  "  got  his  bread 
by  the  '  Maggots.' "  The  "  Maggots  ''  seem,  therefore,  to  have 
been  rather  prolific  than  barren.  One  of  the  poetic  pieces  in 
the  volume  was  called  u  A  Tobacco  Pipe,''  and  it  appears  to 
indicate  the  young  poet's  early  devotion  to  the  pipe.  He 
versifies  the  usual  vapoury  arguments  in  its  favour,  and  then 
sings 

Surely  when  Prometheus  climb'd  above  the  poles, 

Slyly  to  learn  their  art  of  making  souls, 

When  of  his  fire  he  fretting  Jove  did  wipe, 

He  stole  it  thence  in  a  tobacco  pipe ; 

Which,  predisposed  to  live,  as  down  he  ran, 

By  the  soul's  plastic  power,  from  clay  was  turn'd  to  man. 

This  would  have  been  an  important  hint  for  Darwin.  The 
tobacco  pipe  would,  perhaps,  be  more  popular  than  the  ape 
as  an  ancestral  type.  And  smokers  especially  may  be  glad 
to  know  of  what  clay  they  are  made,  and  to  what  form  of 
clay  they  may  return.  Did  the  father's  confirmed  habit  of 
smoking  and  snufF-taking  beget  that  aversion  to  tobacco  and 
snuff  which  his  son  John  so  strongly  expresses  in  a  letter  to 
somebody  in  Ireland  ?     "  Use  all  diligence  to  be  clean. 

"  Let  thy  mind's  sweetness  have  its  operation 
Upon  thy  person,  clothes,  and  habitation. 

Use  no  tobacco — it  is  an  uncleanly  and  unwholesome  self- 
indulgence.  Use  no  snuff.  I  suppose  no  other  nation  in 
Europe  is  in  such  vile  bondage  to  this  silly,  nasty,  dirty 
custom  as  the  Irish  are.  But  let  Christians  be  in  this  bondage 
no  longer.'*     Was  it  his  father's  habit  that  awakened  John 


30  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Wesley  to  the  importance  of  prohibiting  the  use  of  snuff  and 
tobacco  to  his  preachers  ?  That,  probably,  it  was  which 
moved  Samuel  Wesley's  sister  in  law  to  prompt  the 
poetical  pen  of  his  son  Samuel  and  to  bring  out  those 
sarcastic  lines 

The  snuff-box  first  provokes  our  just  disdain, 

That  rival  of  the  fan  and  of  the  cane, 

Your  modern  beaux  to  richest  shrines  intrust 

Their  worthless  stores  of  fashionable  dust. 

Strange  is  the  power  of  snuff,  whose  pungent  grains 

Can  make  fops  speak,  and  furnish  beaux  with  brains  ; 

Nor  care  of  cleanliness,  nor  love  of  dress, 

Can  save  their  clothes  from  brick-dust  nastiness. 

Some  think  the  part  too  small  of  modish  sand 

"Which  at  a  niggard  pinch  they  can  command; 

Nor  can  their  fingers  for  that  task  suffice, 

Their  nose  too  greedy,  not  their  hands  too  nice ; 

To  such  a  height  with  these  is  fashion  grown, 

They  feed  their  very  nostrils  with  a  spoon. 

One,  and  but  one  degree  is  wanting  yet, 

To  make  our  senseless  luxury  complete ; 

Some  choice  regale,  useless  as  snuff  and  dear 

To  feed  the  mazy  windings  of  the  ear. 

This  satire  would  have  been  more  complete  had  it  included 
smoking,  the  more  intrusively  offensive  form  of  selfishness. 

The  young  author  of  " Maggots"  felt  as  if  a  kind  of  apology 
were  needed  for  productions  which  some  called  "  light,  vain, 
frothy,  and  below  the  gravity  of  a  man,  at  least  of  a 
Christian."  In  a  style  as  playful  as  the  poems  he  calls  on  the 
objector  to  lend  him  a  handful  of  beard,  and  to  be  at  the 
charge  of  grafting  it  on,  and  then  he  will  promise  reforma- 
tion. He  pleads,  too,  the  necessity  for  recreation  as  well  as 
work,  and  thinks  that  as  recreation  for  his  pen, his  "Maggots  '" 
give  "neither  his  readers  nor  himself  any  reason  to  blush." 
Many,  perhaps,  might  doubt  his  judgment,  while  they 
allowed  his  plea  for  recreation. 

Sweet  recreation  barr'd  what  doth  ensue, 
But  moody  and  dull  melancholy, 
Kinsman  to  grim  and  comfortless  despair; 
And  at  her  heels,  a  huge  infectious  troop 
Of  pale  distemperatures,  and  foes  to  life  ? 

His  recreations  prepared  him  for  more  serious  and  volu- 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  3  I 

minous  work.     It  is  interesting  and  instructive,  too,  to  visit, 

if  it  be  only  in  imagination,  the  spot  where  a   remarkable 

man  did  some  of  his  best  work  and  realized  some  of  the 

sweetest  pages  of  his  life.     A  traveller  on  horseback  jogging 

from  Spilsby  in  Lincolnshire  towards  Louth  about  the  year 

1692,  and  passing  through   Harrington  would,  just  beyond 

Brinkhill,  descend  into  a  pleasant  valley,  and  find  himself  in 

a  little  picturesque  village,  with  low  mud-built  and  thatched 

cottages  here  and  there  on  the  right  and  the  left,  by  the  way 

side.     A  primitive  old  farm  house  on  one  hand,  and  on  the 

other,  on  what,  there,  would  be  called  a  hill,  the  old  Church 

looking  down  kindly  upon  the  graves  of  generations  who 

had    once   gathered   under    its    roof,    and    offering    friendly 

shelter  to  the  lowly  home  of  its  parson  ;   while  it  claimed 

spiritual   superiority  to  the  Hall  whose  surrounding  woods 

served  to  grace  the  borders  of  God's  acre.     There  he  would 

have  found  Samuel  Wesley  with  his  wife  and  first  boy  living 

on  fifty  pounds  a  year  in  a  style  which  he  himself  poetically 

describes — 

In  a  mean  cot,  composed  of  reeds  and  clay, 
Wasting  in  sighs  the  uncomfortable  day ; 
Near  where  the  inhospitable  H  umber  roars, 
Devouring,  by  degrees,  the  neighbouring  shores. 
Let  earth  go  where  it  will,  I'll  not  repine, 
Nor  can  unhappy  be,  while  heaven  is  mine. 

This  was  South  Ormsby,  in  the  gift  of  his  friend  the 
Marquis  of  Normanby.  The  young  parson  was  as  active  as 
he  was  content,  and  as  happy  as  he  was  active.  Happy,  at 
all  events,  he  was  in  his  wife,  and  happy  he  must  have  been 
in  himself  while  he  could  beautify  his  poetic  pages  with 
portrait  illuminations  of  such  loveliness  aud  virtue  as  hers. 
He  has  immortalized  her  character  thus — 

She  graced  my  humble  roof,  and  blest  my  life, 

Blest  me  by  a  far  greater  name  than  wife  ; 

Yet  still  I  bore  an  undisputed  sway, 

Nor  was't  her  task,  but  pleasure  to  obey  ; 

Scarce  thought,  much  less  could  act,  what  I  denied, 

In  our  low  house  there  was  no  room  for  pride ; 

Nor  need  I  e'er  direct  what  still  was  right, 

She  studied  my  convenience  and  delight. 


32  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Nor  did  I  for  her  care  ungrateful  prove, 

But  only  used  my  power  to  show  my  love. 

Whate'er  she  asked  I  gave,  without  reproach  or  grudge, 

For  still  the  reason  asked,  and  I  was  judge. 

All  my  commands,  requests  at  her  fair  hands, 

And  her  requests  to  me  where  all  commands. 

To  others'  thresholds  rarely  she'd  incline, 

Her  house  her  pleasure  was,  and  she  was  mine ; 

Rarely  abroad,  or  never,  but  with  me, 

Or  when  by  pity  called,  or  charity. 

The  woman  who  thus  gave  joy  to  his  home  was  the  well- 
trained  Susannah,  daughter  of  the  saintly  nonconformist 
minister  of  London,  Dr.  Annesley,  and  sister  to  the  wife  of 
Dunton,  who  published  Wesley's  first  volume  ;  and  who 
after  the  death  of  his  own  beautiful  wife,  revenged  himself, 
it  may  be,  for  Wesley's  expression  of  pain  at  his  haste  to 
marry  again,  by  issuing  the  satirical  verse 

Poor  harmless  Wesley,  let  him  write  again  ; 
Be  pitied  in  his  old  heroic  strain  ; 
Let  him  in  reams  proclaim  himself  a  dunce, 
And  break  a  dozen  stationers  at  once. 

This  sneer  is  directed  chiefly,  perhaps,  at  the  parson's 
Poem  on  "The  Life  of  Christ,"  in  folio.  There  is,  how- 
ever, in  one  of  the  poet's  contributions  to  the  "Athenian 
Gazette,"  which,  for  a  long  time,  he  so  largely  and  with  so 
much  learning  helped  Dunton  to  keep  up,  a  passage  which 
with  more  correct  severity  reflects  upon  the  defects  of  his 
own  poem.  "A  young  poet,"  says  he,  "  should  never  be 
ambitious  of  writing  much,  for  a  little  gold  is  worth  a  great 
head  of  lead  .  .  to  be  a  perfect  poet,  a  man  must  be  a 
general  scholar,  skilled  both  in  the  tongues  and  sciences, 
and  must  be  perfect  in  history  and  moral  philosophy." 
Many  will  differ  from  him  in  his  estimate  of  the  learning 
necessary  to  a  poet.  As  highest  class  poetic  genius  and 
passion  may  be  found  without  much  of  such  learning  as  he 
requires.  If  such  learning  were  a  main  qualification,  he 
would  have  been  nearer  to  perfection  as  a  poet ;  but  his 
fault  was  that  which  he  himself  condemns.  He  wrote  too 
much,  too   fast,  and   too  carelessly  to  write  well  ;  the  fault, 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  33 

in  a  less  degree,  into  which,  some  think,  his  son  Charles 
fell  after  him.  But  his  poem  was  more  mercilessly  dealt 
with,  long  after  he  had  left  this  world,  and  that  under  trie 
guise  of  friendliness. 

"  I  have  been  for  a  long  time  looking  out  for  a  copy  of 
Samuel  Wesley's  Poem  on  the  '  Life  of  our  Lord  and 
Saviour  Jesus  Christ,'  "  said  a  book-worm,  the  other  day,  as 
he  sat  in  a  friend's  library,  "  but  my  search  has  been  in 
vain." 

"There  is  one  here,"  was  the  reply ;  and  a  thick  little 
duodecimo  volume  was  produced,  which  proved  to  be  Dr. 
Coke's  edition.  The  book-worm  rejoiced  at  a  sight  of  the 
treasure.  But,  alas  for  him !  and  alas  for  the  poet !  and 
alas  for  the  little  doctor !  On  opening  to  the  preface, 
there  were  the  following  utterances — "  Each  book  of  the  poem 
(except  the  6th)  has  an  addition  of  many  lines,  some  as 
many  as  hundreds — on  the  whole,  not  less  than  two  thou- 
sand, besides  those  which  supply  the  places  of  those  lopped 
off. — Besides  lines  additional,  others  new.  .  .  .  Few  of  the 
original  lines  are  now  standing.  The  versification  may  be 
said  to  be  new — an  old  poem  cast  in  a  new  model.  The 
writer  flatters  himself  that  on  a  comparative  estimate  they 
will  be  found  not  unworthy  of  regard.  But  he  does  not 
profess  himself  to  be  a  particular  favourite  of  the  Muses. 
Parnassus  is  a  mount  which  he  never  intended  to  ascend. 
His  tale  on  the  present  occasion  is  short  and  simple.  He 
saw  this  poem  of  Mr.  Wesley,  the  plan  and  design  of  which 
he  thought  to  be  excellent,  but  the  lines  appeared  to  be  very 
bad.  He  has  therefore  endeavoured  to  mend  what  he  has 
preserved,  and  to  supply  what  he  thought  to  be  deficient." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  for  a  little  doctor?"  cried 
the  book-worm,  "  a  man  who  '  never  intended  to  ascend 
Parnassus'!  One  who  never  ' thought  himself  a  favourite 
with  the  Muses.'  For  him  to  undertake  to  mend  every  line 
of  Samuel  Wesley's  which  he  thought  worthy  of  his  touch  ! 
To  supply  what  he  '  thought  to  be  deficient '  after  he  had 
'  lopped  off '    most   of  the  book  as  redundant  !     No  !  no ! 

D 


34  THE     POETS     OF    METHODISM. 

my  little  doctor !  You  were  a  glorious  missionary  hero  . 
but  you  should  have  let  alone  '  commentary  '  making  ;  and 
as  to  clipping  and  botching  Samuel  Wesley,  neither  'Par- 
nassus '  nor  the  '  Muses  '  ever  gave  you  licence  or  power !  " 

The  thick  little  volume  was  nunt^  down  in  disappoint- 
ment ;  and  no  wonder !  Some  of  Wesley's  best  passages 
had  been  marred  and  '  mended.'  Among  these,  one  or  two  are 
remarkable  for  their  original  pure  lyric  beauty  and  power. 
One  to  the  glory  of  God  the  Father — 

Before  this  beauteous  world  was  made, 
Before  the  earth's  foundations  laid, 
He  was,  He  ever  is,  we  know  not  how  ! 
No  mean  succession  His  duration  knows, 
That  spring  of  being  neither  ebbs  nor  flows : 
Whatever  was,  was  Gtd,  ere  time  or  place  ; 
Endless  duration  He,  and  boundless  space, 
Fill'd  with  Himself,  wherever  thought  can  pierce, 
He  fill'd  Himself  alone,  the  universe. 

Another,  in  celebration  of  the  Divine  Son — 

The  Father's  image  He,  as  great  as  bright, 
Closed  in  the  same  insufferable  light ; 
More  closely  join'd,  more  intimately  one 
With  His  great  Father,  than  the  light  and  sun. 

Equal  in  goodness  and  in  might, 

True  God  of  God,  and  Light  of  Light ; 

Him,  with  the  Father,  we  adore  ; 

There  is  no  after,  or  before. 

But  some  of  the  poet's  smaller  detached  pieces  are  among 
his  more  polished  gems.  So  his  sons,  John  and  Charles, 
thought  when  they  gave  prominence  to  one  or  two  of  them 
in  their  first  volume  of  "  Hymns  and  Sacred  Poems."  One 
piece  was  declared  by  an  able  critic  to  be  "  the  finest  poem 
on  the  subject  in  the  English  language."  The  poet  heads  the 
verses  with  what  he  supposes  to  be,  "  Part  of  a  (new) 
dialogue  between  Plato  and  Eupolis  the  poet";  at  the  close 
of  which  Eupolis  gives  his  "  Hymn  to  the  Creator  " — 

Author  of  Being,  Source  of  Light, 
With  unfading  beauties  bright, 
Fullness,  Goodness,  rolling  round 
Thy  own  fair  orb  without  a  bound  : 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  3$ 

Whether  Thee  Thy  suppliants  call 
Truth,  or  Good,  or  One,  or  All, 
Ei  or  Jao  ;  Thee  we  hail 
Essence  that  can  never  fail, 
Grecian  or  Barbaric  name, 
Thy  steadfast  Being  still  the  same. 

Thee,  when  morning  greets  the  skies 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  humid  eyes  : 
Thee,  when  sweet  declining  day 
Sinks  in  purple  waves  away  ; 
Thee  will  I  sing,  O  Parent  Jove, 
And  teach  the  world  to  praise  and  love. 

Yonder  azure  vault  on  high, 
Yonder  blue,  low,  liquid  sky, 
Earth  on  its  firm  basis  placed, 
And  with  circling  waves  embraced, 
All,  Creating  Power  confess, 
All  their  mighty  Maker  bless. 
Thou  shak'st  all  Nature  with  Thy  nod, 
Sea,  earth,  and  air  confess  Thee  God : 
Yet  does  Thy  powerful  hand  sustain 
Both  earth  and  heaven,  both  fiim  and  main. 

Scarce  can  our  daring  thought  arise 
To  Thy  pavilion  in  the  skies ; 
Nor  can  Plato's  self  declare 
The  bliss,  the  joy,  the  rapture  there. 
Barren  above  Thou  dost  not  reign, 
But  circled  with  a  glorious  train, 
The  Sons  of  God,  the  Sons  of  Light, 
Ever  joying  in  Thy  sight 
(For  Thee  their  silver  harps  are  strung)  : 
Ever  beauteous,  ever  young, 
Angelic  forms  their  voices  raise, 
And  through  heaven's  arch  resounds  Thy  praise. 

The  feather'd  souls  that  swim  the  air, 
And  bathe  in  liquid  ether  there  ; 
The  lark,  precentor  of  their  choir, 
Leading  them  higher  still  and  higher, 
Listen  and  learn ;  the  angelic  notes 
Repeating  in  their  warbling  throats  ; 
And  ere  to  soft  repose  they  go, 
Teach  them  to  their  lords  below : 
On  the  green  turf,  their  mossy  nest, 
The  evening  anthem  swells  their  breast 
Thus  like  Thy  golden  chain  from  higir 
Thy  praise  unites  the  earth  and  sky. 

Source  of  Light,  Thou  bid'st  the  sun 
On  his  burning  axles  run; 


$6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  stars  like  dust  around  him  fly, 

And  strew  the  area  of  the  sky. 

He  drives  so  swift  his  race  above, 

Mortals  can't  perceive  him  move ; 

So  smooth  his  course,  oblique  or  straight, 

Olympus  shakes  not  with  his  weight. 

As  the  queen  of  solemn  night 

Fills  at  his  vase  her  orb  of  light, 

Imparted  lustre  ;  thus  we  see 

The  solar  virtues  shine  by  Thee. 

Eiresione  we'll  no  more, 
Imaginary  Power,  adore ; 
Since  oil,  and  wood,  and  cheering  wine, 
And  life-sustaining  bread  is  Thine. 

Thy  herbage,  O  great  Pan,  sustains 
The  flocks  that  graze  our  Attic  plains  ; 
The  olive  with  fresh  verdure  crown'd, 
Rises  pregnant  from  the  ground  ; 
At  Thy  command  it  shoots  and  springs, 
And  a  thousand  blessings  brings. 
Minerva,  only  is  Thy  mind, 
"Wisdom  and  bounty  to  mankind. 
The  fragrant  thyme,  the  bloomy  rose, 
Herb  and  flower  and  shrub  that  grows 
On  Thessaiian  Tempos  plain, 
Or  where  the  rich  Saleans  reign, 
That  treat  the  taste  or  smell  or  sight, 
For  food,  for  medicine,  ©r  delight ; 
Planted  by  Thy  parent  care, 
Spring  and  smile  and  flourish  there. 

O  ye  nurses  of  soft  dreams, 
Reedy  brooks  and  winding  streams, 
Or  murmuring  o'er  the  pebbles'  sheen, 
Or  sliding  through  the  meadows  green, 
Or  where  through  matted  sedge  you  creep, 
Travelling  to  your  parent  deep  : 
Sound  His  praise  by  whom  you  rose, 
That  Sea  which  neither  ebbs  nor  flows. 

O  ye  immortal  woods  and  groves, 
"Which  the  enamour'd  student  loves  ; 
Beneath  whose  venerable  shade, 
For  thought  and  friendly  converse  made, 
Famed  Hecadem,  old  hero,  lies, 
W7hose  shrine  is  shaded  from  the  skies, 
And  through  the  gloom  of  silent  night 
Projects  from  far  its  trembling  light; 
You,  whose  roots  descend  as  low 
As  high  in  air  your  branches  grew  ; 


FATHERS    OF    POETS.  3] 

Your  leafy  arms  to  heaven  extend, 
Bend  your  heads,  in  homage  bend  : 
Cedars  and  pines  that  wave  above, 
And  the  oak  beloved  of  Jove. 

Omen,  monster,  prodigy, 
Or  nothing  are,  or,  Jove,  from  Thee  ; 
Whether  various  Nature  play, 
Or  re-inversed  Thy  will  obey, 
And  to  rebel  man  declare 
Famine,  plague,  or  wasteful  war. 
Laugh,  ye  profane,  who  dare  despise 
The  threatening  vengeance  of  the  skies, 
Whilst  the  pious,  on  his  guard, 
Undismay'd  is  still  prepared  : 
Life  or  death,  his  mind  's  at  rest, 
Since  what  Thou  send'st  must  needs  be  best. 

No  evil  can  from  Thee  proceed : 
'Tis  only  suffer'd,  not  decreed. 
Darkness  is  not  from  the  sun, 
Nor  mount  the  shades  till  he  is  gone : 
Then  does  night  obscure  arise 
From  Erebus,  and  fills  the  skies, 
Fantastic  forms  the  air  invade, 
Daughters  of  nothing  and  of  shade. 

Can  we  forget  Thy  guardian  care, 
Slow  to  punish,  prone  to  spare  ? 
Thou  brak'st  the  haughty  Persian's  pride, 
That  dared  old  ocean's  power  deride  ; 
Their  shipwrecks  strew'd  the  Eubcean  wave, 
At  Marathon  they  found  a  grave. 
O  ye  blest  Greeks  who  there  expired, 
For  Greece  with  pious  ardour  fired, 
What  shrines  or  altars  shall  we  raise 
To  secure  your  endless  praise  ? 
Or  need  we  monuments  supply 
To  rescue  what  can  never  die  ? 

And  yet  a  greater  Hero  far 
(Unless  great  Socraces  could  err) 
Shall  rise  to  bless  some  future  day, 
And  teach  to  live  and  teach  to  pray. 
Come,  unknown  Instructor,  come  1 
Our  leaping  hearts  shall  make  Thee  room,; 
Thou  with  Jove  our  vows  shalt  share, 
Of  Jove  and  Thee  we  are  the  care. 

O  Father  King,  whose  heavenly  face 
Shines  serene  on  all  Thy  race, 
We  Thy  magnificence  adore, 


38  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  Thy  well-known  aid  implore  : 
Nor  vainly  for  Thy  help  we  call ; 
Nor  can  we  want:  for  Thou  art  All  ! 

The  author  of  this  hymn  was  remarkable  for  the  versatility 
of  his  talents  •  and  though  there  was  much  in  his  hastily- 
written  pages  that  occasionally  provoked  the  satirical  powers 
of  contemporary  genius,  yet  there  was  much  of  suggestive 
thought  underlying  his  unpolished  material ;  and  sometimes, 
it  may  be,  the  suggestions  were  used  by  those  who  repaid  the 
benefit  with  a  laugh.  Wesley's  "  Epistle  to  a  Friend  con- 
cerning Poetry"  may  have  suggested  the  notion  of  Pope's 
"Dunciad,"  if  not  of  Byron's  "English  Bards  and  Scotch 
Reviewers."  It  is  without  the  bad  feeling  which  breathes  in 
these  productions,  but  is  distinguished  by  much  critical 
acumen,  just  thought,  and  fair  judgment;  while  it  evidences, 
here  and  there,  fine  poetic  ingenuity. 

Samuel  Wesley  would  have  done  better  as  a  poet  had  he 
adopted  the  German  motto  and  kept  to  both  its  terms — 
"  Never  haste,  never  rest."  He  never  rested  ;  but  he  was  too 
hasty.  His  verse-making  was  ceaseless  ;  but  his  verses  could 
not  always  mature  themselves  for  haste.  So  it  was  in  his 
last  volumes,  "  The  History  of  the  Old  and  New  Testament, 
attempted  in  verse ;  and  adorned  with  three  hundred  and 
thirty  sculptures." 

But  in  the  estimation  of  good  Methodists,  and,  indeed,  of 
all  Christian  people  throughout  the  world,  one  hymn  of 
Samuel  Wesley's  will  ceaselessly  shed  balm  on  his  memory. 

"Among  my  recollections,"  says  a  Sunday-school  teacher, 
"  is  the  image  of  a  gentle  girl  who  was  missed  from  the 
school  but  one  Sabbath ;  and  then  we  heard  that  Sarah  was 
no  more.  In  her  short  illness,  while  she  was  able  to  express 
herself,  she  spoke  of  happy  days  in  the  school.  ■  Mother,' 
said  she,  '  find  me  that  hymn  beginning  with 

M  '  Behold  the  Saviour  of  mankind 
Nail'd  to  the  shameful  tree  ! 
How  vast  the  love  that  Him  inclined 
To  bleed  and  die  for  thee  1 ' 


FATHERS    OF     POETS.  0)9 

"  Her  mother  read  the  entire  hymn,  and  the  happy  girl 
responded,  '  Now,  mother,  mind  the  line 

11 '  To  bleed  and  die  for — me  ! 
Yes  !   He  did  !  for  me  !  for  vie  !    He  calls  me  home  !  ' 

"  It  was  her  last  word.     She  had  left  her  mother  behind  to 
'  mind  the  line  ' — 

"  To  bleed  and  die  for  thee  ! " 

"  Good  Friday !  O  how  I  love  the  return  of  Good  Friday  !  " 

said  a  silver-haired,  saintly  woman,  as  she  sat  with  a  friend  at 

the  door  of  her  cottage  in  the  evening  light  of  that  Christian 

memorial  day.     Her  eyes  looked  as  if  they  were  reflecting 

holy  light  from   the   mysterious  cross ;   and  her  voice   was 

tremulous  with  sacred  feeling  as  she  spoke.     "  It  was  on  a 

Good   Friday  evening  that  my  heart,  while  yet  young,  was 

first  broken,  as  I  listened  to  the  story  of  the  cross ;  and  then 

healed,  as  the  music  of  the  hymn  seemed  to  come  direct  with 

life  from  heaven  in  those  words — 

11  O  Lamb  of  God  !  was  ever  pain, 
Was  ever  love  like  Thine ! 

O  how  precious  has  that  hymn  been  to  me  ever  since  !     It 

is,   indeed,   my  Good   Friday  hymn.     This  day's   return   is 

always    sweet.       And    that    hymn     is    my    heart's    music 

throughout  the  day,  and  will  be  till  I  go  to  see  Him  !  " 

Among  the  few  things  saved    from    the    fire    when    the 

Epworth  Parsonage  was  burnt,  and  the  child  John  Wesley 

was  so  marvellously  preserved,  was  this  same  precious  "  Good 

Friday  hymn." 

Behold  the  Saviour  of  mankind 

Nail'd  to  the  shameful  tree  ! 
How  vast  the  love  that  Him  inclined 

To  bleed  and  die  for  thee ! 

Though  far  unequal  our  low  praise 

To  Thy  vast  sufferings  prove, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  thus  ail  our  days, 

Thus  will  we  grieve  and  love. 

Hark,  how  He  groans!  while  nature  shakes, 

And  earth's  strong  pillars  bend  ! 
The  Temple's  veil  in  sunder  breaks, 

The  solid  marbles  rend. 


40  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

'Tis  done!  the  precious  ransom  's  paid  ; 

"  Receive  my  soul,"  He  cries  : 
See  where  He  bows  His  sacred  head ! 

He  bows  His  head  and  dies. 

But  soon  He'll  break  Death's  envious  chain, 

1  in  full  glory  shine! 
O  Lamb  of  God,  was  ever  pain, 
Was  ever  love  like  Thine! 

Thy  loss  our  ruins  did  repair, 

Death  by  Thy  death  is  slain  ; 
Thou  wilt  at  length  exalt  us  where 

Thou  dost  in  glory  reign. 

Were  this  all  that  the  elder  Samuel  Wesley  ever  left  us,  it 
would  be  sufficient  to  establish  his  claim  in  our  hearts  as 
a  father  of  Methodist  poetry,  and  a  worthy  head  of  "  the 
Epworth  singers." 


' 


wr&m*$*** 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS. 


CHAPTER    III. 


THE     EPWORTH     SINGERS. 

From  yon  lonely  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard  at  intervals 
The  voice  of  psalms — the  simple  song  of  praise. 


|VERY  remarkable  manifestation  of  Christ  appears 
to  be  heralded  and  ushered  in  by  newly  inspired 
song.  The  mystery  of  the  holy  Incarnation  was 
preceded  by  successive  strains  of  prophetic  poesy. 
Those  who  were  sent  to  proclaim  the  Saviour's 
personal  approach  were  inspired  bards.  Every  Messianic 
prophet  was  a  poet ;  and  every  sacred  poem  was  a  prophecy. 
When  the  prophetic  promises  were  fulfilled  in  Christ's  visible 
presence  among  men,  heaven  opened  its  harmonies  in  accord- 
ance with  inspired  human  voices — the  poetic  utterances  of 
hallowed  genius  below  melted  into  the  swell  of  anthems  from 
above — the  poetry  of  inspired  men  was  felt  to  be  akin  to 
that  which  belongs  to  heaven,  the  home  and  source  of  all 
pure  poetic  life.  "And  suddenly  there  was  with  the  angel  a 
multitude  of  the  heavenly  hosts  praising  God,"  and 

.     .     .     sudden  blaze  of  song 

Spreads  o'er  the  expanse  of  Heav'n  ; 
In  waves  of  light  it  thrills  along, 
Th'  angelic  signal  given — 
"  Glory  to  God  !  "  from  yonder  central  fire 
Flows  out  the  echoing  lay  beyond  the  starry  quire  : 

Like  circles  widening  round 

Upon  a  clear  blue  river, 
Orb  after  orb  the  wondrous  sound 
Is  echoed  on  for  ever  : 
"  Gloiy  to  God  on  high,  on  earth  be  peace, 
And  love  towards  men  of  love — salvation  and  release." 


42  THE     TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

So  in  the  following  "days  of  the  Son  of  Man,"  when  He 

comes  in  the  power  of  His  truth,  and  in  fresh  manifestations 

of  His  Spirit,  to  assert  His  claims  anew  as  the  Saviour  and 

Mediatorial    Lord    of    mankind,    it    would    seem    that    His 

approach  awakened  the  powers  of  song,  and  called  human 

genius   to  consecrate   its  powers   to  the  celebration   of  His 

Pentecostal  glory.     We   may  not,   in  such  cases,  hear  the 

harmony  above  as  shepherds  once  did,  for 

Whilst  this  muddy  mixture  of  decay 
Doth  grossly  close  us  in,  we  cannot  hear  it — 

but  He  calls  up  tuneful  human  voices  to  bail  each  mightier 
coming  of  the  Spirit  of  Truth ;  to  marshal  the  powers  and 
spread  the  joys  of  His  saving  grace.  Indeed,  those  who 
devoutly  study  the  history  of  the  Christian  religion  will  now 
and  then  find  themselves  pleasantly  arrested  by  periodic 
swells  in  the  tide  of  holy  song  j  the  Church  will  be  seen  to 
have  its  "  times  and  seasons  "  of  new  poetic  inspiration  : 
"times  of  refreshing  from  the  presence  of  the  Lord."  And 
it  is  happily  instructive  to  observe  that  these  fresh  breathings 
of  spiritual  music  from  above  are  so  timed  as  to  provide 
Christ's  people  with  enlarged  means  of  expression,  as,  by 
turns,  they  are  called  to  the  joys  of  victory,  and  to  "glory  in 
tribulation."  Beautiful  illustrations  of  this  are  to  be  found 
in  the  annals  of  Christianity  on  the  Continent. 

The  well-timed  rise  in  succession  of  the  "  Minne  Singers," 
the  "Mystic  Hymnists,"  the  "Master  Singers,"  and  the 
tuneful  "Bohemian  Brethren,"  shows  how  graciously  hallowed 
pcetic  and  musical  genius  has  been  made  to  minister  to 
Christ's  spiritual  household  at  each  crisis  in  its  history.  The 
mighty  Comforter,  who,  by  the  ministry  of  Luther,  called 
such  multitudes  in  Germany  into  newness  of  life,  spoke  by 
him,  too,  when  he  summoned  forth  new  powers  of  spiritual 
song,  and  opened  a  new  era  in  the  history  of  tuneful  worship. 
"I  would  fain,"  says  Luther,  "see  all  arts,  especially  music, 
in  the  sen- ice  of  Him  who  has  given  and  created  them.  It 
is  my  intention,  after  the  example  of  the  prophets  and 
ancient  fathers,  to  make  German  psalms  for  the  people ;  that 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  43 

is,  spiritual  songs,  whereby  the  Word  of  God  may  be  kept 
among  them  by  singing.  We  seek  therefore  everywhere  for 
poets."  Nor  did  he  seek  in  vain.  Poets  arose  under  an 
inspiration  which  seemed  to  be  given  for  the  occasion.  And 
the  Spirit's  work  in  the  psalmody  of  Lather's  time  bore  fruit 
and  fulfilled  its  purpose,  until — a  Romanist  being  witness — 
"  the  whole  people  were  singing  themselves  into  this 
Lutheran  doctrine."  The  succession  of  devout  poets  con- 
tinued j  and  the  great  work  of  the  Reviving  Spirit  issued  in 
the  opening  of  a  new  era  of  spiritual  life,  until  the  conse- 
crated poetic  genius  of  Germany  seemed  to  become  the  con- 
necting link  between  holy  reformation  on  the  Continent  and 
the  spiritual  awakening  under  the  Wesleys  and  their  com- 
panions in  England.  The  name  of  Epworth  appears  to  be 
naturally  associated  with  the  rise  of  what  may  be  called  the 
Methodist  school  of  psalmody. 

At  the  most  north-western  point  of  Lincolnshire,  on  the 
westerly  bank  of  the  river  Trent,  there  was  a  tract  of  land 
which,  towards  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century,  was  still, 
for  the  most  part,  a  low  marsh.  Even  the  few  raised  portions 
of  it  were  overflown  on  the  rise  of  the  waters.  "  I  and  my 
company  have  been  confined  to  an  upper  chamber,"  says  an 
eye-witness,  "and  seen  no  dry  land  for  the  space  of  these 
seven  days.  I  did  see-  the  mothers,  Pyrrha-like,  trudging 
middle-deep  in  water  with  theire  infants  hanging  upon  theire 
breastes ;  and  the  fathers,  Deucalion-like,  bearinge  theire 
children  upon  theire  shoulders,  to  seek  higher  ground  for 
theire  succour.  All  sorts  of  people  in  pitifull  distress ;  some 
to  save  theire  lives,  some  theire  goods  and  cattle,  some  to  get 
food  for  theire  hungrie  bodies."  The  district  formed  an 
island  between  three  rivers  and  an  old  dyke,  known  as  the 
"  Isle  of  Axholme."  About  the  centre  of  the  province,  on  a 
swell  that  rose  above  the  fen,  was  the  ancient  Heapeurde,  or 
"the  Hill  Farm,"  afterwards  known  as  Epworth.  From  the 
church  on  this  comparatively  high  ground,  the  eye  might 
range  over  the  swampy  flats  and  throw  its  glance  around 
from  Kirton  on  the  Lincolnshire  side,  down  to  Nottingham- 


44  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

shire,  and  with  a  sweep  to  the  west  into  Yorkshire,  until  it 
reached  up  to  the  Northern  Wolds.  To  this  "  farm  on  the 
rising  ground"  Samuel  Wesley  came,  during  the  year 
1696,  by  such  roads  only  as  led  across  the  partially  cultured 
flax  and  barley  fields.  Here  he  found  a  rectory  described  as 
a  dwelling  of  "five  baies,  built  all  of  timber  and  plaister,  and 
covered  all  with  straw  thatche,  the  whole  building  being  con- 
trived into  three  stories,  and  disposed  into  seven  chiefe 
rooms,  namely — a  kitchinge,  a  hall,  a  parlour,  a  butterie,  and 
three  large  upper  rooms ;  besydes  some  others  of  common 
use  ;  and  also  a  little  garden  impailed,  betweene  the  stone 
wall  and  the  south.  The  horne-stall,  or  scite  of  the  parson- 
age, situate  and  lyenge  betweene  the  field  on  the  east,  and 
Lancaster  Lane  on  the  west,  and  abuttinge  upon  the  High 
Street  on  the  south,  and  of  John  Maw — sonne  of  Thomas 
— his  tenement,  and  a  croft  on  the  north.  By  estimation 
three  acres.  One  barn  of  six  baies,  built  all  of  timber  and 
clay  walls,  and  covered  with  straw  thatche j  and  outshotts 
about  it,  and  free  house  there  bye.  One  dovecoate  of  timber 
and  plaister  covered  with  straw  thatche ;  and  one  hempkiln, 
that  hath  been  useallie  occupied  for  the  parsonage  ground, 
adjoyning  upon  the  south." 

The  Rector  and  his  exemplary  wife  brought  four  children 
to  this  Epworth  home — Samuel,  who  was  born  in  London, 
and  three  girls,  Emilia,  Susanna,  and  Mary.  This  Epworth 
parsonage  became  the  birth-place  of  six  more  children,  suc- 
ceeding one  another,  as,  Mehetabel,  Anne,  John,  Martha, 
Charles,  and  Kezia.  Thus  was  formed  the  remarkable  family 
often,  all  more  or  less  gifted  with  poetic  power,  and  several  ot 
whom  have  been  immortalized  as  what  may  be  called  the 
family  of  Epworth  singers. 

The  influence  which  this  family  has  had  on  so  many 
following  generations,  and  its  still  widening  power  for  good 
over  families  and  populations  throughout  the  world,  are 
largely  owing  to  their  sanctified  training  in  that  Epworth 
home.  Where  has  not  the  accumulated  fruit  of  the  saintly 
mother's  deeds  been  seen  and  felt  ?     When  will  the  good 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  45 

inherited  from  the  learning,  genius,  and  steadfast  godliness 
of  the  venerable  head  of  that  Ep worth  household  die  out  from 
human  life?  "Though,"  says  that  faithful  mother,  "the 
education  of  so  many  children  must  create  abundance  of 
trouble,  and  will  perpetually  keep  the  mind  employed  as  well 
as  the  body  j  yet  consider  'tis  no  small  honour  to  be  entrusted 
with  the  care  of  so  many  souls.  And  if  that  trust  be  but 
managed  with  prudence  and  integrity,  the  harvest  will 
abundantly  recompense  the  toil  of  the  seed-time ;  and  it 
will  be  certainly  no  small  accession  to  the  future  glory  to 
stand  forth  at  the  last  day  and  say,  '  Lord,  here  are  the 
children  which  Thou  hast  given  me,  of  whom  I  have  lost 
none  by  my  ill  example,  nor  by  neglecting  to  instil  into  their 
minds,  in  their  early  years,  the  principles  of  Thy  true  re- 
ligion and  virtue.'  "  The  woman  who  held  this  principle  duly 
worked  it  out.  She  aimed  at  educating  each  child's  "whole 
spirit  and  soul  and  body  "j  bringing  all  and  each  under  such 
physical  discipline  as  best  to  promote  health  and  strength, 
training  and  instructing  their  intellect  to  mental  vigour  and 
intelligence  ;  and,  above  all,  leading  them  to  act  on  religious 
principle,  and  to  form  habits  of  devout  acquaintance  with  the 
Divine  will.  Their  genius  and  poetic  passion  were  inherited 
from  the  father  ■  but  the  gracious  exercise  of  their  genius, 
and  the  fine  balance  of  their  various  powers  and  gifts,  they 
owed  to  the  character  and  oversight  of  the  devoted  mother. 
Her  mode  of  home  training  was  somewhat  shaped,  it  may 
be,  by  the  peculiarities  of  her  first  boy's  case.  The  young 
Samuel's  "hearing  was  acute  an'd  perfect  5  his  intellect 
apparently  keen  and  active ;  but  there  was  no  power  of 
speech.  He  never  uttered  an  intelligible  word  until  he  was 
nearly  five  years  old ;  and  his  parents  began  to  fear  that  he 
was  hopelessly  dumb.  Having  been  missed  longer  than  usual 
on  one  occasion,  his  mother  sought  him  in  different  parts  of 
the  house,  but  without  success.  '  Becoming  alarmed,  she 
called  him  loudly  by  name,  and  to  her  joyful  surprise  he 
answered  from  under  a  table,  in  a  clear,  distinct  voice,  '  Here 
I  am,  mother!'      Suddenly,    and    without   any    assignable 


46  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

reason  or  effort,  he  had  gained  the  use  of  speech.  This  early 
infirmity  in  the  case  of  her  first-born  prevented  Mrs.  Wesley 
beginning  to  teach  him,  had  she  been  so  disposed,  before  he 
was  five  years  old.  He  now  learned  with  great  rapidity," 
and  soon  amply  repaid  her  care.  The  cheering  success  of 
this  her  first  attempt  at  teaching  probably  fixed  her  plans  for 
the  future.  "  The  school  always  opened  and  closed  with 
singing  a  solemn  psalm  j  "  and  nothing  was  permitted  to 
disturb  this  order.  This  regulated  system  of  psalm-singing 
may  have  done  much  to  tune  the  native  powers  of  song  which 
were  more  or  less  peculiar  to  every  member  of  the  household. 
Samuel  was  about  six  years  old  when  brought  to  Epworth, 
and  after  due  preparation  was  sent  to  "Westminster  School  in 
his  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  year.  As  the  hope  of  his  father 
and  the  object  of  loving  solicitude  to  his  mother,  he  had  the 
benefit  of  their  written  advice  and  warning  and  teaching. 
The  influence  of  the  father  may  be  traced  in  its  distinctness 
from  that  of  the  mother  in  their  correspondence ;  while  the 
beautiful  harmony  of  parental  feeling  is  equally  clear.  The 
child  of  such  parents,  the  scholar  from  such  a  parental  school, 
if  possessed  of  any  genius  or  heart,  might  be  expected  to  do, 
or  to  say,  or  to  be,  something  that  would  graciously  associate 
him  with  the  happiness  and  welfare  of  future  generations. 
And  so  it  was.  Samuel  Wesley,  as  the  eldest-born  of  the 
Epworth  singers,  has,  by  the  exercise  of  his  hallowed  poetic 
power,  become  for  ever  one  with  the  most  tender  and  holy 
sympathies  of  Christian  life.  A  single  hymn  of  his  was 
enough  to  effect  this.  What  wonder  is  awakened  in  the  soul 
when  it  seeks  to  trace  the  innumerable  linking  of  things  in 
the  kind  works  of  Providence  and  saving  grace  !  How 
mysteriously  one  person  is  found  to  be  related  to  another, 
though  far  apart  both  as  to  space  and  time  :  and  how  delicate 
is  the  tie  which  sometimes  binds  the  action  of  one  to  the 
ever  unfolding  destinies  of  many  !  One  word  in  conversa- 
tion, one  sentence  in  a  sermon,  or  one  verse  of  a  hymn,  is,  in 
some  cases,  immortally  connected  with  the  salvation  of  ever- 
expanding  multitudes  of  souls. 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  47 

"God  has  given  you  many  spiritual  children,"  said  one 
Christian  minister  to  another,  as  they  walked  and  talked  about 
Divine  things,  "  and  you  have  the  joy  of  knowing  that  your 
children  in  the  Gospel  are  among  those  '  chosen  pilgrims  of 
the  dispersion,'  who,  like  the  '  elect  strangers  '  to  whom 
Peter  wrote,  are  maintaining  and  spreading  spiritual  life  in 
almost  all  parts  of  the  world  where  English-speaking  people 
are  found.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  prolific  power  of  your 
ministry  is  found  in  that  realization  of  unseen  and  eternal 
things  which  you  seem  to  have  in  yourself  while  you  speak, 
and  which,  by  the  grace  of  the  Blessed  Spirit,  your  words 
appear  to  awaken  in  those  who  hear  you." 

"  It  may  be  so,"  was  the  answer,  "  and  if  so,  it  is  (  accord- 
ing to  His  abundant  mercy ';  for  I  can  trace  that  sense  of 
Divine  reality  in  the  spiritual  and  unseen  to  one  point  in  my 
early  course,  when  it  was  so  called  into  life  as  never  to  lose 
its  power.  Soon  after  my  conversion,  I  was  taken  to  see  a 
young  woman  who  was  at  the  point  of  death.  She  had  been 
a  fellow-teacher  with  me  in  the  Sunday-school ;  but  in  spite 
of  all  holy  influences,  examples,  warnings,  and  prayers,  she 
had  given  her  heart  to  the  vain  world,  and  had  accepted  the 
homage  which  it  paid  to  her  beauty.  I  looked  at  her  now 
— beautiful  still ;  and  while  my  venerable  companion  was 
tenderly  pressing  the  claims  of  Jesus  on  her  heart,  I  was 
rehearsing  to  myself  those  exquisite  lines — 

"  Or  worn  by  slowly-rolling  years, 
Or  broke  by  sickness  in  a  day, 
The  fading-  glory  disappears, 

The  short-lived  beauties  die  away. 

In  my  youthful  hopefulness,  I  hoped  for  her,  and  inwardly 
pursued  the  happier  strain — 

"  Yet  these,  new  rising  from  the  tomb, 
With  lustre  brighter  far  shall  shine ; 
Revive  with  ever-during  bloom, 
Safe  from  diseases  and  decline. 

But  I  had  scarcely  finished  the  verse  in  my  thought,  before 
a  cast  of  inexpressible  horror  was  on  her  face,  and  in  answer 
to  an  invitation  to  Christ  from  my  friend,  she  shrieked,  as  she 


48  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

tore  her  hair,  'Too  late  ! ' — and  was  gone  !  I  hurried  from 
that  room  feeling  that  there  were  terrible  realities  in  the 
unseen  world  around  me.  That  feeling  remained  till  I 
myself,  to  all  human  appearance,  was  close  on  the  end  of  my 
mortal  life.  The  solemn  blessedness  of  that  night  still 
impresses  me.  My  friends  standing  around  in  that  silent 
chamber  j  the  grave  calmness  of  the  old  physician  by  my 
side  ^  the  loss,  on  my  part,  of  all  power  to  utter  even  a 
whisper  j  the  keen  sensitiveness  of  my  spirit  as  it  seemed  to 
be  moving  peacefully — oh,  how  peacefully  ! — towards  some 
Divine  region — then  it  was  that  I  had  that  hallowed  realiza- 
tion of  the  spiritual  world  in  its  nearness,  which  has  given  a 
tone  to  my  views  and  feelings  ever  since.  That  realization 
was  given  to  me  by  what  appeared  to  be  a  sweetly-toued, 
heavenly  breathing  into  my  soul  of  a  favourite  verse, 

"  Let  sickness  blast,  and  death  devour, 
If  heaven  must  recompense  my  pains  ; 
Perish  the  grass  and  fade  the  flower, 
If  firm  the  word  of  God  remains. 

That  rich  inward  intonation  of  those  lines  floats  to  my 
spirit's  ear  even  now.  And  I  often  think  whether  what  I 
felt  then  of  the  power  and  meaning  of  the  lines  were  any- 
thing like  a  spiritual  reflection  of  the  author's  own  thought 
and  feeling  when  he  wrote  them.  If  so,  he  must  have  been 
'  in  the  heavenlies  with  Christ '  when  his  soul  first  uttered 
that  hymn.  How  fine  and  touching  is  its  music,  rising  so 
calmly  as  it  does,  from  melting  plaintiveness  to  bright  and 
even  triumphant  assurance !  It  was  written  '  on  the  death 
of  a  Young  Lady,'  and  is  a  paraphrase  of  Isaiah's  poetic  verse, 
*  All  flesh  is  grass,  and  all  the  goodiiness  thereof  is  as  the 
flower  of  the  field.' 

"  The  morning-  flowers  display  their  sweets, 
And  gay  their  silken  leaves  unfold, 
As  careless  of  the  noontide  heats, 
As  fearless  of  the  evening  cold. 

Nipt  by  the  wind's  unkindly  blast, 

Parch'd  by  the  sun's  directer  ray, 
The  momentary  glories  waste, 

The  short-lived  beauties  die  away. 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  49 

So  blooms  the  human  face  divine, 

When  youth  its  pride  of  beauty  shows  :        % 

Fairer  than  spring  the  colours  shine, 
And  sweeter  than  the  virgin  rose. 

Or  worn  by  slowly  rolling  years, 

Or  broke  by  sickness  in  a  day, 
The  fading  glory  disappears, 

The  short-lived  beauties  die  away. 

Yet  these,  new  rising  from  the  tomb, 

With  lustre  brighter  far  shall  shire ; 
Revive  with  ever-during  bloom, 

Safe  from  diseases  and  decline. 

Let  sickness  blast,  and  death  devour, 
If  heaven  must  recompense  my  pains  ; 

Perish  the  grass,  and  fade  the  flower, 
If  firm  the  word  of  God  remains. 

"Blessings  forever  on  the  memory  of  Samuel  Wesley, 
junior  !  " 

"Yes,"  said  the  minister's  companion,  "and  blessings 
upon  that  name  will  come  from  many  others,  from  me 
among  the  rest.  But  from  how  many,  many  besides  ! 
From  all  those,  indeed,  your  children  in  the  Gospel,  whose 
spiritual  birth  and  growth,  and  fruitfulness,  and  immortal 
victories,  are  for  ever  in  mysterious  relationship  to  the  hymn 
which  the  Holy  Ghost  used  in  preparing  you  for  preaching, 
during  so  many  years,  within  the  light  of  "things  unseen," 
and  with  accumulative  results !  Endless  are  the  living 
associations  which  I  see  gathering  around  that  hymn  and  its 
glorified  author." 

Samuel  Wesley,  junior,  could  never  be  strictly  called  a 
Methodist.  He  was  from  the  first,  and  ever  remained,  what, 
in  his  times,  might  be  considered  a  High  Churchman j  and 
yet,  as  a  poet,  his  hymns  give  him  an  immortal  connection 
with  the  Epworth  singers  and  with  the  poets  of  Methodism. 
His  talents  as  a  wit  and  literary  genius,  brought  him  into 
companionship  and  friendliness  with  the  leading  geniuses  of 
his  times,  such  as  Lord  Orford,  Pope,  and  Atterbury. 
His  close  friendship  with  Atterbury  cost  him  the  loss  of 
Robert  Walpole's  good-will ;  and  probably  resulted   in   his 


5°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

quiet  settlement  at  Tiverton  in  Devon,  as  the  master  of 
Blundell's  Grammar  School.  He  did  not  shrink  from  the 
free  exercise  of  his  sarcastic  powers  against  those  who  dif- 
fered from  him  and  his  friend  in  politics.  Hence  the  biting 
verses  on  his  sordid  opponent,  Walpole — 

A  Steward  once,  the  Scripture  says, 
When  ordered  his  accounts  to  pass, 
To  gain  his  master's  debtors  o'er, 
Cried,  "  For  a  hundred  write  fourscore." 

Near  as  he  could,  Sir  Robert  bent 
To  follow  Gospel  precedent : 
When  told  a  hundred  late  would  do, 
Cried,  "  1  beseech  you,  sir,  take  two." 

In  merit  which  would  we  prefer, 
The  Steward  or  the  Treasurer  ? 
Neither  for  justice  car'd  a  fig, 
Too  proud  to  beg,  too  old  to  dig ; 
Both  bountiful  themselves  have  shown, 
In  things  that  never  were  their  own  : 
But  here  a  difference  we  must  grant — 
One  robb'd  the  rich  to  keep  off  want ; 
T'other,  vast  treasures  to  secure, 
Stole  from  the  public  and  the  poor. 

How  often,  when  walking  up  the  old  avenue  to  the  un- 
pretending door-way  of  ancient  Tiverton's  "  Free  Grammar 
School,"  have  we  thought  of  Peter  Blundell's,  the  poor 
clothier,  who,  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth  century,  by  industry 
and  uprightness  rose  to  the  dignity  of  a  rich  merchant,  and 
secured  honour  for  his  own  memory  by  saying  that,  "though 
he  was  no  scholar  himself,  he  would  be  the  means  of  making 
many  !  "  And  how  often  have  our  thoughts  about  his  good 
purpose  been  associated  with  the  name  of  Samuel  Wesley, 
as  one  of  the  most  efficient  instruments  in  fulfilling  the 
good  man's  design  !  Never  have  we  looked  upon  that  speak- 
ing portrait  of  the  "Master  "  which  is  still  preserved  in  the 
school,  without  thinking  of  that  master's  faithful  and  affec- 
tionate observance  of  his  father's  request — "  Endeavour  to 
repay  your  mother's  prayers  for  you  by  doubling  yours  for 
her  3  and,  above  all  things,  to  live  such  a  virtuous  and  reli- 
gious life  that  she  may  rind  that  her  care   and   love  have  not 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  $1 

been  lost  upon  you,  but  that  we  may  all  meet  in  heaven.  Id 
short,  reverence  and  love  her  as  much  as  you  will,  which  I 
hope  will  be  as  much  as  you  can.  For  though  I  should  be 
jealous  of  any  other  rival  in  your  heart,  yet  I  will  not  be 
jealous  of  her ;  the  more  duty  you  pay  her,  and  the  more 
frequently  and  kindly  you  write  to  her,  the  more  you  will 
please  your  affectionate  father." 

The  master  of  Blundell's  School  entered  on  his  work 
about  the  year  1732  ;  having  for  many  years  proved  himself 
ready  for  ruling  and  training  others  by  setting  an  example  of 
tender  obedience  to  the  command,  "  Honour  thy  father,  and 
thy  mother."  Gentle  warmth,  simplicity,  and  keen,  sarcastic 
force,  were  combined  in  his  character  as  a  poet.  These  fea- 
tures of  his  character  are  found  embalmed  in  verse,  each  in 
its  own  shrine.  And  sometimes,  when  side  by  side,  they 
strikingly  show  the  diversity  of  his  powers.  Now,  his  child- 
like simplicity  and  gentleness  breathe  in  an  "  Epitaph  on  an 
Infant"— 

Beneath,  a  sleeping  infant  lies; 

To  earth  whose  ashes  lent 
More  glorious  shall  hereafter  rise, 

Though  not  more  innocent. 
When  the  Archangel's  trump  shall  blow, 

And  souls  and  bodies  join, 
What  crowds  will  wish  their  lives  below 

Had  been  as  short  as  thine  ! 

And  now,  he  reflects  on  the  erection  of  a  monument  to 
the  author  of  "  Hudibras  "  in  Westminster  Abbey,  with  a  sar- 
castic force  which,  like  forked  lightning,  leaves  its  impress 
burnt  into  the  object  which  it  smites — 

While  Butler,  needy  wretch  !  was  yet  alive, 

No  generous  patron  would  a  dinner  give  ; 

See  him,  when  starved  to  death  and  turn'd  to  dust, 

Presented  with  a  monumental  bust! 

The  Poet's  fate  is  here  in  emblem  shown — 

He  asked  for  Bread,  and  he  received  a  Stone. 

But  it  is  in  his  hymns  that  the  human  lovableness  and  the 
high-toned  piety  and  devotion  of  Samuel  Wesley  still  live  to 
bless  the  spiritual  descendants  of  the  Epworth  Singers. 


52  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Two  friends  once  stood  side  by  side,  during  the  Sunday 
service,  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Their  devotion  was  aided 
by  the  chant  and  song  which  arose  swelling  and  melting  by 
turns,  and  which,  to  them,  was  so  new  and  fresh  that  it 
might  seem  to  be  the  approaching  music  of  an  immortal 
Sabbath.  Little  did  one  of  them  think  that  so  soon  from 
that  time  the  music  of  an  immortal  Sabbath  would  fill 
the  departed  soul  of  his  companion  ;  but  so  it  was.  Years 
afterwards,  when  far  away  from  Westminster  Abbey,  while 
he  "  went  through  the  cornfields  on  the  Sabbath  day,"  the 
music  of  that  self-same  Westminster  Abbey  chant  seemed 
to  come  flowing  to  his  ear,  though  no  choristers  were 
to  be  seen.  From  whencesoever  it  came,  it  touched  a  chord 
in  his  soul,  for  he  had  some  "  music  in  himself,"  and  he 
sang  in  response — 

"  The  Lord  of  Sabbath  let  us  praise, 

In  concert  with  the  blest, 
"Who  joyful  in  harmonious  lays 

Employ  an  endless  rest. 
Thus,  Lord,  while  we  remember  Thee, 

We  blest  and  pious  grow  ; 
By  hymns  of  praise  we  learn  to  be 

Triumphant  here  below. 

On  this  glad  day  a  brighter  scene 

Of  glory  was  display'd, 
By  God,  th'  eternal  Word,  than  when 

This  universe  was  made. 
He  rises,  who  mankind  has  bought 

With  grief  and  pain  extreme  : 
'Twas  great  to  speak  a  world  from  naught : 

'Twas  greater  to  redeem !  " 

It  was  not  until  a  few  years  after  this  responsive  song  in 
the  cornfield  that  the  singer  knew  the  hymn  to  be  a  Sabbath 
utterance  of  one  who,  a  century  and  half  ago,  caught  inspira- 
tion amidst  the  Sabbath  harmonies  of  old  Westminster 
Abbey.  While  Samuel  Wesley  was  as  yet  but  a  pupil  at 
Westminster,  his  father  said  to  him  in  a  letter  from  Epworth, 
"  I  hope  you  understand  the  Cathedral  service — I  mean, 
understand  what  they  sing  and  say.     If  we  do  understand 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS. 


53 


the  service,  and  go  along  with  it,  we  shall  find  Church  music 
a  great  help  to  our  devotion.  .  .  We  are  not  to  think  God  has 
framed  man  in  vain  an  harmonious  creature ;  and  surely 
music  cannot  be  better  employed  than  in  the  service  and 
praises  of  Him  who  made  both  the  tongue  and  the  ear."  This 
appeal  could  not  be  in  vain  to  one  who  inherited  his  father's 
musical  as  well  as  poetic  taste.  Cathedral  music  was  a 
devout  joy  to  him,  and  when,  as  an  usher  in  Westminster 
School,  his  genius  became  mature,  it  was  under  the  inspira- 
tion of  Sabbath  music  in  the  old  Abbey  that  his  poetical  soul 
concentrated,  in  that  one  short,  tuneful  hymn,  its  own  har- 
monized thoughts  on  the  Divine  reason,  authority,  blessed 
associations,  and  sanctifying  influence  of  the  Christian  Sabbath. 
The  quietness  of  old  Twyford,  or  Tiverton,  reposing  on  its 
southern  slope  between  the  Devonian  streams  of  the  Exe  and 
the  Loman,  and  the  rich  beauty  of  its  surroundings,  were 
more  akin,  it  may  be,  to  the  poet's  taste  and  powers  than  the 
dim  cloisters  of  Westminster.  Here,  it  is  certain,  his  genius 
gave  out  some  of  its  sweetest  and  holiest  music.  No  one 
who  loves  his  memory  and  breathes  the  spirit  of  his  hymns 
can  approach  the  richly  sculptured  southern  porch  of  the 
parish  church  without  picturing  the  intellectual-looking 
head  master,  with  his  usher  and  one  hundred  and  fifty 
foundation  boys,  passing  into  the  fine  old  sanctuary,  in 
observance  of  "  Fast  "  or  "  Festival."  And  it  might  be  that 
as  the  bells  from  that  lofty  tower  ceased  their  tuneful  call, 
in  the  solemn  silence  which  fell  on  the  worshippers  before 
the  opening  sentences  of  the  service,  Samuel  Wesley  would 
come  under  that  thrilling  sense  of  the  Divine  Father's  pre- 
sence which  he  has  so  grandly  expressed  in  the  Methodist 
hymn — 

Hail,  Father,  whose  creating  call 

Unnumber'd  worlds  attend  ; 
Jehovah  comprehending  all, 

Whom  none  can  comprehend  ! 
In  light  unsearchable  enthroned, 

Whom  angels  dimly  see; 
The  Fountain  of  the  Godhead  own'd, 

And  foremost  of  the  Three. 


54  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

From  Thee,  through  an  eternal  now, 

Tne  Son,  Thine  Offspring  flovv'd  ; 
An  everlasting  Father  Thou, 

An  everlasting  God. 
Nor  quite  display'd  to  worlds  above, 

Nor  quite  on  earth  conceal'd ; 
By  wondrous,  unexhausted  love, 

To  mortal  man  reveal'd. 

Supreme  and  all-sufficient  Gel, 

When  nature  shall  expire  ; 
And  world's  created  by  Thy  nod, 

Shall  perish  by  Thy  fire. 
Thy  name,  Jehovah  be  adored 

By  creatures  without  end  ; 
Whom  none  but  Thy  essential  Word 

And  Spirit  comprehend. 

Nor  would  any  reverent  Christian  who  had  entered  into  the 
doctrine  of  the  cross  deeply  enough  to  be  free  from  modern 
heathenism  in  the  observance  of  Good  Friday  ever  move  up, 
on  that  memorial  day,  between  the  fine  clustered  columns  of 
the  spacious  nave  towards  the  chancel  of  St.  Peter's,  Tiver- 
ton, without  being  solemnized  at  the  thought  of  one  who 
used  to  worship  there  j  and  who,  on  a  Good  Friday  about  the 
year  1734,  kindled  there  into  the  spirit  of  a  hymn  in  which 
an  apostolic  intensity  of  devotion  to  the  CrucLied  wraps  the 
worshipper  in  holy  wonder  at  the  mystery,  the  agony,  the  joy 
of  the  cross — 

From  whence  these  dire  portents  around, 

That  heaven  and  earth  amaze? 
Wherefore  do  earthquakes  cleave  the  ground? 

Why  hides  the  sun  his  rays  ? 

Not  thus  did  Sinai's  trembling  head 

With  sacred  horror  nod, 
Beneath  the  dark  pavilion  spread 

Of  legislative  God. 

Thou  Earth,  thy  lowest  centre  shake. 

With  Jesus  sympathize  ! 
Thou  Sun,  as  hell's  deep  gloom  be  black  : 

'Tis  thy  Creator  dies  ! 


See,  streaming  from  the  accursed  tree, 

His  all-atoning  blood  ! 
Is  this  the  Infinite  ? — 'Tis  He! 

My  Saviour  and  my  God  ! 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  5J 

For  me  these  pangs  His  soul  assail, 

For  me  the  death  is  borne  ; 
My  sins  gave  sharpness  to  the  nail, 

And  pointed  every  thorn. 

Let  sin  no  more  my  soul  enslave; 

Break,  Lord,  the  tyrant's  chain; 
O  save  me,  whom  Thou  cam'st  to  save, 

Nor  bleed  nor  die  in  vain  ! 

The  amiable  and  gifted  hymnist,  so  graciously  trained  at 
Epworth,  departed  to  his  rest  from  Tiverton,  Nov.  6,  1759, 
aged  forty-nine. 

In  thinking  of  the  Epworth  singers,  a  regretful  thought 
must  be  given  to  the  eldest  daughter  of  the  house,  Emilia. 
The  thought  must  be  regretful  both  on  her  account  and  our 
own.  "We  are  sorry  to  find  so  little  remaining  fruit  of  her 
poetic  passion  ;  while  it  must  be  deplored  that  seemingly  un- 
happy circumstances  should  ever  have  crossed  or  embittered 
the  thought  and  feeling  of  so  gifted  a  woman.  She  had  been 
brought  from  her  birth-place,  South  Ormsby,  to  Epworth 
while  but  a  child.  Her  parents  bestowed  special  care  on  her 
training.  She  became  a  thoroughly  intellectual  and  educated 
woman,  with  an  exquisite  taste  for  the  beautiful,  especially 
in  poetry  and  music.  Her  brother  John,  of  whom  she  was 
passionately  fond,  declared  that  she  was  the  best  reader  of 
Milton  he  had  ever  heard.  She  loved  her  mother  with 
intense  affection 3  while  in  occasional  sharpness  of  temper 
and  impatience  of  opposition,  she  reflected  her  father's  in- 
firmities, showing,  at  the  same  time,  that  she  inherited  his 
energy,  perseverance,  imperious  will,  and  noble  courage. 
Some  time  before  she  became  Mrs.  Harper,  and  while  she 
was  residing  at  Wroote,  her  sister  Hetty,  then  Mrs.  Wright, 
tuneful  and  elegant  amidst  all  her  sorrows,  sent  her  the 
following   lines   illustrative    of   her  personal    character   and 


surroundings — 


My  fortunes  often  bid  me  flee 
So  light  a  thing  as  Poetry  ; 
But  stronger  inclination  draws, 
To  follow  Wit  and  Nature's  laws- 


$6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Virtue,  Form,  and  Wit,  in  thee 
Mo\e  in  perfect  harmony; 
For  thee  my  tuneful  voice  I'll  raise> 
For  tree  compose  my  softest  lays ; 
My  youthful  muse  shall  take  her  flight, 
And  crown  thy  beauteous  head  with  radiant  beams  of  light. 

True  Wit  and  sprightly  Genius  shine 
In  every  turn,  in  every  line — 
To  these,  O  skilful  Nine,  annex 
The  native  sweetness  cf  my  sex ; 
And  that  peculiar  talent  let  me  show 
"Which  Providence  divine  doth  oft  bestow 
On  spirits  that  are  high,  with  fortunes  that  are  low. 

Thy  virtues  and  thy  graces  all, 

How  simple,  free,  and  natural ! 

Thy  graceful  form  with  pleasure  I  survey  ; 

It  charms  the  eye,  the  heart,  alwav. — 

Malicious  Fortune  did  repine, 

To  grant  her  gifts  to  worth  like  thine  ! 

To  all  thy  outward  majesty  and  grace, 
To  all  the  blooming  features  of  thy  face, 
To  all  the  heavenly  sweetness  of  thy  mind, 
A  noble,  generous,  equal  soul  is  joined, 
By  reason  polished,  and  by  arts  refined. 
Thy  even,  steady  eyes  can  see 
Dame  Fortune  smile  or  frown  at  thee  ; 
At  every  varied  change  can  say,  "  It  moves  not  me  !  " 

Fortune  has  fixed  thee  in  a  place 
Debarred  of  "Wisdom,  Wit,  and  Grace. 
High  births  and  virtue  equally  they  scorn 
As  asses  dull,  on  dung-hills  born  : 
Impervious  as  the  stones,  their  heads  are  found  ; 
Their  rage  and  hatred  steadfast  as  the  ground. 
"With  these  unpolished  wights  thy  youthful  davs 
Glide  slow  and  dull,  and  Nature's  lamp  decays  : 
O  what  a  lamp  is  hid,  'midst  such  a  sordid  race ! 

But  though  thy  brilliant  virtues  are  obscured, 
And  in  a  noxious,  irksome  den  immured, 
My  numbers  shall  thy  trophies  rear, 
And  lovely  as  she  is,  my  Emily  appear. 
Still  thy  transcendent  praise  I  will  rehearse, 
And  form  this  faint  description  into  verse ; 
And  when  the  Poet's  head  lies  low  in  clay, 
Thy  name  shall  shine  in  words  which  never  can  decay. 

An  interesting  and  somewhat  amusing  indication  of  her 
character  is  given  in  one  of  her  letters  to  her  favourite  brother 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  57 

John.  It  would  appear  that  John,  while  at  Oxford,  was 
disposed  to  introduce  priestly  confession,  among  the  other 
High  Church  practices  which  he  so  diligently  pursued,  before 
he  found  the  enjoyment  of  salvation  in  Christ.  He  must 
have  proposed  the  plan  to  Emilia ;  and  she  proves  herself 
more  than  an  equal,  even  for  him,  in  strong  sense,  and  free, 
vigorous  thought.  "  To  lay  open  the  state  of  my  soul 
to  you,  or  any  of  our  clergy,  is  what  I  have  no  inclination  to 
at  present  j  and  I  believe  I  never  shall :  I  shall  not  put  my 
conscience  under  the  direction  of  any  mortal  man,  frail  as 
myself.  To  my  own  Master  I  stand  or  fall.  Nay,  I  scruple 
not  to  say  that  all  such  desire  in  you,  or  any  other  ecclesiastic, 
seems  to  me  like  Church  tyranny,  and  assuming  to  your- 
selves a  dominion  over  your  fellow-creatures  which  was 
never  designed  you  by  God."  Well  done,  Emilia  !  Would 
to  God  that  the  youthful  mind  of  England  may  prove 
equally  free  and  powerful  to  resist  the  new  generation  of 
unfledged  priests  who  seek  to  insinuate  themselves  into 
mastery  over  young  women's  consciences  !  Had  this  eldest 
daughter  of  the  Epworth  home  thrown  her  clear,  strong 
thoughts  about  clerical  pretensions  into  verse,  we  might  have 
had  something  that  would  even  more  than  rival  the  lines  of 
her  brother  Charles  in  his  poetical  epistle  to  his  brother 
John   as   to  the   Church — 

But  should  the  bold  usurping  spirit  dare 
Still  higher  climb,  and  sit  in  Moses1  chair, 
Power  o'er  my  faith  and  conscience  to  maintain, 
Shall  I  submit,  and  suffer  it  to  reign  ? 
Call  it  The  Church,  and  darkness  put  for  light, 
Falsehood  with  truth  confound,  and  wrong  with  right  ? 
No:  I  dispute  the  evil's  haughty  claim, 
The  spirit  of  the  world  be  still  its  name, 
Whatever  called  by  man,  'tis  purely  evil, 
'Tis  Babel,  Antichrist,  and  Pope,  and  Devil. 

Emilia  Wesley's  memory  is  closely  associated  with  a  re- 
markable occurrence  in  the  history  of  the  Epworth  family. 
In  a  letter  to  her  brother  Charles,  she  says,  respecting  the 
extraordinary  supernatural  disturbances  in  the  new  parson- 
age— "  I  am  so  far  from  being  superstitious,  that  I  was   too 


58  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

much  inclined  to  infidelity  ;  and  I  therefore  heartily  rejoice 
at  having  such  an  opportunity  of  convincing  myself,  past 
doubt  or  scruple,  of  the  existence  of  some  beings  besides 
those  we  see."  So,  in  this  case,  there  was  an  object  accom- 
plished fully  adequate  to  the  mysterious  magnitude  of  the 
means.  Whatever  the  spiritual  agency  was,  it  found  Emilia 
a  doubting  genius,  and  it  left  her  as  true  a  believer  as  her 
brother,  who  as  one  article  of  his  Christian  creed  sang — 

Bound  in  chains  of  hidden  night, 

Stragglers  from  the  infernal  pit, 
Devils  cannot  wreak  their  spite, 

'Till  our  sovereign  Lord  permit: 

Jesus  covers  us  and  ours, 

Who  on  His  great  name  depend, 
Limits  hell's  malicious  powers, 

Saves  His  people  to  the  end. 

Did  it  ever  occur  to  Emilia  Wesley,  or  to  anybody  else, 
that  the  machinations  of  human  malice  might  be  permitted 
for  some  purposes  to  continue  their  operation  by  unseen 
agency,  from  the  region  where  mal  cious  souls  are  suffering 
their  reward  ?  Was  there  no  connection  between  the  un- 
earthly distractions  in  the  new  rectory  at  Epworth  and  the 
wicked  persecutions  which  hnd  been  consummated  in  the 
burning  of  the  old  parsonage  ?  Was  there  no  relation 
between  the  mortal  overthrow  of  the  leading  persecutors  of 
the  Rector's  household  and  the  fiendlike  intrusions  on  that 
household's  peace  and  devotion  ?  Among  the  bitterest 
enemies  of  the  godly  Rector  there  was  one  pre-eminent 
villain,  the  horrid  circumstances  of  whose  death,  after 
his  last  desperate  act  of  malice,  seemed  to  symbolize  his 
destiny  under  a  retributive  Providence.  This  was  Robert 
Darwin ;  one  of  the  richest,  but  one  of  the  most 
abandoned  parishioners.  The  name,  curiously  enough,  ap- 
pears, as  a  matter  of  course,  to  call  up  Isaac  Taylor's  mode 
of  accounting  for  the  disturbances  in  Epworth  Parsonage. 
"Around  us,"  says  he,  "as  most  believe,  are  beings  of  a  high 
order,  whether  good  or  evil,  and  yet  not  cognizable  by  the  senses 
of  men.     But  the  analogies  of  tne  visible  world  favour  the 


THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS. 


59 


supposition  that,  besides  these,  there  are  orders,  or  species, 
of  all  grades,  and  some,  perhaps,  not  more  intelligent  than 
apes  or  pigs.  That  these  species  have  no  liberty,  ordinarily, 
to  infringe  upon  the  solid  world,  is  manifest;  nevertheless, 
chances  or  mischances,  may,  in  long  cycles  of  time,  throw 
some — like  the  Arabian  locust — over  his  boundary,  and  give 
him  an  hour's  leave  to  disport  himself  among  things 
palpable."  May  there  be  some  truth  in  this?  May  the 
truth  that  is  in  it  be  reconcilable  with  the  notion  that  the 
monster  Darwin  and  his  companions  may  have  been  per- 
mitted still  to  manifest,  for  a  time,  their  despairing  malice  in 
their  now  dark  spiritual  style  ?  The  name  of  Darwin  has 
often,  since  then,  been  identified  with  queer  minglings  of 
species,  and  mysterious  alliances  between  human  beings  and 
other  orders  of  life,  "not  more  intelligent  than  apes  or  pigs"! 
Such  associations  of  thought  may  be  distinctive  of  some 
family  lines.  We  can  afford  to  wait  for  more  light  in  such 
matters. 

It  is  clear,  in  the  meantime,  that  Emilia  Wesley  needed 
an  impressive  lesson  on  unseen  realities,  and  that,  with  other 
members  of  her  family  who  became  so  mighty  in  dealing 
with  "  things  that  are  eternal,"  she  manifested  in  her 
character  the  saving  design  of  the  extraordinary  teaching. 
She  lived  to  realize  the  Christian's  openness  to  the  good 
influences  of  the  spirit-world  as  well  as  to  its  powers  of 
evil;  to  the  joys  of  its  ministerial  guardianship  as  well  as  to 
its  readiness  for  mischief.  And  after  all  her  trials  she  could 
sing  in  harmony  with  her  musical  brother — 


Angels,  where'er  we  go,  attend 

Our  steps,  whate'er  betide, 
With  watchful  care  their  charge  attend 

And  evil  turn  aside. 


But  thronging  round  with  busiest  love, 
They  guard  the  dying  breast; 

The  lurking  fiend  far  off  remove, 
And  sing  our  souls  to  rest: 


60  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  when  our  spirits  we  resign, 

On  outstretch'd  wings  they  bear, 
And  lodge  it  in  the  arms  Divine, 

And  leave  for  ever  there. 

This  eldest  sister  of  the  Epworth  group  lived  nearly  to  hei 
eightieth  year.  Her  beloved  brother  John  provided  a  retreat 
for  her,  during  the  time  of  her  widowhood,  in  the  chapel- 
house  of  West  Street,  Seven  Dials,  London ;  and  there,  in 
the  use  of  the  religious  services,  her  enjoyment  of  truth 
deepened  until  her  course  was  peacefully  finished.  The  only 
specimen  of  her  verse  that  remains  is  in  a  few  lines,  "written 
under  a  portrait  of  John  Wesley  " — 

His  eyes  diffuse  a  venerable  grace ; 

And  charity  itself  is  in  his  face. 

Humble  and  meek,  learn'd,  pious,  prudent,  just, 

Of  good  report,  and  faithful  to  his  trust: 

Vigilant,  sober,  watchful  of  his  charge, 

Who  feeds  his  sheep,  and  doth  their  folds  enlarge. 


SSMm 


m% 


& 


Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed, 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  6l 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS. 

Say,  what  is  life  ?     A  mystery  !  most  to  them 

Who  strive  to  fathom  its  still  changeful  deep  ; 
Who  fain  exultingly  the  tide  would  stem 

That  human  bosoms  in  dim  woe  doth  steep  : 
Who  soar  aspiringly,  yet  still  must  weep  ; 

On  towering  pinions,  chain'd  to  earthly  coil ; 
Intensely  questioning  the  vast,  the  deep, 

The  gem  enshrined  v\ithin  its  mortal  foil ; 
The  ethereal  spark  bedimm'd  by  sorrow  and  turmoil. 


HERE  is  much  mystery  about  what  one  may  call 
the  particular  fate  by  which  some  families  are 
followed.  Distinguished  as  the  household  may 
be  for  gifts  and  culture,  each  member  in  succes- 
sion appears,  in  some  cases,  to  take  the  same 
unhappy  turn  at  some  one  point  in  their  course.  So  it  was 
with  the  Wesleys.  With  but  few  exceptions,  the  Epworth 
family  were  either  crossed  in  love,  or  proved  unhappy  in 
their  wedded  life.  One  of  the  exceptions  was  the  beautiful 
little  Mary;  with  a  diminutive  and  somewhat  deformed 
figure,  there  was  an  exquisite  charm  of  countenance,  sweetly 
expressive  of  the  lovely  temper  and  gracefulness  of  her  soul. 
With  the  approbation  of  all  her  family,  she  became  the  much 
loved  and  loving  wife  of  John  Whitelamb,  who,  from  humble 
birth  and  charity-school  training,  rose,  under  the  care  of 
Mary's  father,  to  a  successful  college  life,  and  to  the  pastoral 
charge  of  Wroote,  a  neighbouring  parish  to  Epworth.  The 
conjugal  joys  of  the  little  rude  primitive  parsonage  among  the 
fens  were  broken  up,  however,  in  twelve  months.  Mary 
and    her    first    infant    were    buried    together    in    the    rural 


6l  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

grave-yard  of  her  husband's  first  parish.  Her  sister,  Me- 
hetabel,  wrote  this  beautiful  "  Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mary  White- 
lamb;'— 

If  highest  worth,  in  beauty's  bloom, 
Exempted  mortals  from  the  tomb, 
We  had  not  round  this  sacred  bier 
Mourned  the  sweet  babe  and  mother  here, 
Where  innocence  from  harm  is  blest, 
And  the  meek  sufferer  is  at  rest ! 
Fierce  pangs  she  bore  without  complaint, 
Till  heaven  relieved  the  finished  saint. 

If  savage  bosoms  felt  her  woe, 
(Who  lived  and  died  without  a  foe), 
How  should  I  mourn,  or  how  commend, 
My  tenderest.  dearest,  firmest  friend  ? 
Most  pious,  meek,  resigned,  and  chaste, 
With  every  social  virtue  graced  ! 

If,  reader,  thou  would'st  prove,  and  know, 
The  ease  she  found  not  here  below  ; 
Her  bright  example  points  the  way 
To  perfect  bliss  and  endless  day. 

The  same  gifted  sister  shows  herself  to  be  the  brightest 
poetical  genius  of  the  Epworth  Singers  in  another  tribute  to 
Mary's  memory  :  a  poem  which  immortalizes  the  loveliness 
and  virtue  of  the  departed,  while  it  touchingly  associates  the 
poet's  tender  recollections  of  her  sister's  Deauty  of  character 
with   plaintive  allusions  to  the  springs  of  her  own  sorrow — 

If  blissful  spirits  condescend  to  know, 
And  hover  round  what  once  they  loved  below ; 
Maria  !  gentlest  excellence  !  attend 
To  her,  who  glories  to  have  called  thee  friend  ! 
Remote  in  merit,  though  allied  in  blood, 
Unworthy  I,  and  thou  divinely  good  ! 
Accept,  blest  shade,  from  me  these  artless  lays, 
Who  never  could  unjustly  blame,  or  praise. 
How  thy  economy  and  sense  outweighed 
The  finest  wit  in  utmost  pomp  displayed, 
Let  others  sing,  while  I  attempt  to  paint 
The  god-like  virtues  of  the  friend  and  saint. 

With  business  and  devotion  never  cloyed, 
No  moment  of  thy  life  passed  unemployed, 
Well-natured  mirth,  mature  discretion  joined, 
Constant  attendants  of  the  virtuous  mind. 
From  earliest  dawn  of  youth,  in  thee  well  known, 
The  saint  sublime  and  finished  Christian  shone. 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  6$ 

Yet  would  not  grace  one  grain  of  pride  allow, 

Or  cry,  "  Stand  off*,  I'm  holier  than  thou  !  " 

A  worth  so  singular  since  time  began, 

But  one  surpassed,  and  He  was  more  than  man. 

When  deep  immersed  in  griefs  beyond  redress, 

And  friend  and  kindred  heightened  my  distress, 

And  with  relentless  efforts  made  me  prove 

Pain,  grief,  despair,  and  wedlock  without  love, 

My  soft  Maria  could  alone  dissent, 

O'erlooked  the  fatal  vow,  and  mourned  the  punishment. 

Condoled  the  ill,  admitting  no  relief, 

With  such  infinitude  of  pitying  grief, 

That  all  who  could  not  their  demerit  see, 

Mistook  her  wond'rous  love  for  worth  in  me; 

No  toil,  reproach,  or  sickness  could  divide 

The  tender  mourner  from  her  Stella's  side ; 

My  fierce  inquietude,  and  maddening  care, 

Skilful  to  soothe,  or  resolute  to  share  ! 

Ah  me!  that  heaven  has  from  this  bosom  tore 
My  angel  friend,  to  meet  on  earth  no  more ; 
That  this  indulgent  spirit  soars  away, 
Leaves  but  a  still,  insentient  mass  of  clay ; 
Ere  Stella  could  c'.ischarge  the  smallest  part 
Of  all  she  owed  to  such  immense  desert ; 
Or  could  repay  with  aught  but  feeble  praise 
The  sole  companion  of  her  joyless  days  ; 
Nor  was  thy  form  unfair,  though  heaven  confined 
To  scanty  limits  thy  exalted  mind. 
Witness  thy  brow  serene,  benignant,  clear, 
That  none  could  doubt  transcendent  truth  dwelt  there  ; 
Witness  the  taintless  whiteness  of  thy  skin, 
Pure  emblem  of  the  purer  soul  within  : 
That  soul,  which  tender,  unassuming,  mild, 
Through  jetty  eyes  with  tranquil  sweetness  smiled. 
But  ah  1  could  fancy  paint,  or  language  speak, 
The  roseate  beauties  of  thy  lip  or  cheek, 
Where  nature's  pencil,  leaving  art  no  room, 
Touched  to  a  miracle  the  vernal  bloom. 
(Lost  though  thou  art)  in  Stella's  deathless  line, 
Thy  face  immortal  as  thy  fame  shall  shine. 

To  soundest  prudence  (life's  unerring  guide), 
To  love  sincere,  religion  without  pride ; 
To  friendship  perfect  in  a  female  mind, 
Which  I  nor  hope  nor  wish  on  earth  to  find  ; 
To  mirth  (the  balm  of  care)  from  lightness  free, 
Unblemished  faith,  unwearied  industry  ; 
To  every  charm  and  grace  combined  in  you, 
Sister  and  friend  ! — a  long,  a  last  adieu  1 

Of  the  seven  Epworth  daughters,  the  only  other  exception, 


64  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

as  a  case  of  comfortable  married  life,  was  that  of  Anne, 
sometimes  at  home  familiarly  called  Nancy,  or  Nan.  She 
makes  no  figure  in  the  records  of  the  family  ;  and  no  notice 
is  given  of  her  person,  except  it  may  be  in  her  brother 
Samuel's  playful  allusion  to  his  father  at  Wroote — 

Methinks  I  see  you  striving-  all 
Who  first  shall  answer  to  his  call, 
Or  lusty  Nan,  or  feeble  Moll, 
Sage  Pat,  or  sober  Hetty ; 
To  rub  his  cassock's  draggled  tail, 
Or  reach  his  hat  from  off' the  nail, 
Or  seek  the  key  to  draw  his  ale, 

When  damsel  haps  to  steal  it ; 
To  burn  his  pipe,  or  mend  his  clothes, 
Or  nicely  darn  his  russet  hose, 
For  comfort  of  his  aged  toes, 

So  fine  they  cannot  feel  it. 

"  Lusty  Nan"  has  left  no  memorial  of  her  mind's 
character.  Her  marriage  to  John  Lambert,  a  land  surveyor 
in  Epworth,  brought  from  her  eldest  brother  some  verses, 
the  good  sense,  wisdom,  and  piety  of  which  may  have  been 
reflected  in  her  domestic  character  and  life,  while  they  were 
exemplified  in  the  author's  own  home  experience — 

No  fiction  fine  shall  guide  my  hand, 

But  artless  truth  the  verse  supply ; 
Which  all  with  ease  may  understand, 

But  none  be  able  to  deny. 

Nor,  sister,  take  the  care  amiss 

Which  I,  in  giving  rules  employ 
To  point  the  likliest  way  to  bliss, 

To  cause  as  well  as  wish  you  joy. 

Let  love  your  reason  never  blind, 

To  dream  of  paradise  below  ; 
For  sorrows  must  attend  mankind, 

And  pain,  and  weariness,  and  woe ! 

Though  still,  from  mutual  love,  relief 

In  all  conditions  may  be  found : 
It  cures  at  once  the  common  grief, 

And  softens  the  severest  wound. 

Through  diligence  and  well-earned  gain 

In  growing  plenty  may  you  live  1 
And  each  in  piety  obtain 

Repose  that  riches  cannot  give  ! 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  6$ 

If  children  e'er  should  bless  the  bed, 

Oh,  rather  let  them  infants  die 
Than  live  to  grieve  the  hoary  head, 

And  make  the  aged  father  sigh  I 

Still  duteous,  let  them  ne'er  conspire 

To  make  their  parents  disagree  ; 
No  son  be  rival  to  his  sire, 

No  daughter  more  beloved  than  thee ! 

Let  them  be  humble,  pious,  wise, 

Nor  higher  station  wish  to  know  ; 
Since  only  those  deserve  to  rise 

Who  live  contented  to  be  low. 

Firm  let  the  husband's  empire  stand, 

With  easy  but  unquestioned  sway; 
May  he  have  kindness  to  command, 

And  thou  the  bravery  to  obey ! 

Long  may  he  give  thee  comfort,  long 

As  the  frail  knot  of  life  shall  hold  ! 
More  than  a  father  when  thou'rt  young, 

More  than  a  son  when  waxing  old. 

The  greatest  earthly  pleasure  try, 

Allowed  by  Providence  Divine  ; 
Be  still  a  husband,  blest  as  I, 

And  thou  a  wife  as  good  as  mine ! 

To  Nan's  educated,  well-read  husband  we  owe  the  careful 
preservation  of  his  father-in-law's  early  publications,  many  of 
which  happily  illustrate  the  character  of  the  venerable  parent 
of  our  Epworth  Singers. 

Pitiable,  indeed,  is  the  marriage  story  of  the  other  sisters. 
Of  Susanna,  lovely  in  form  and  face,  of  lively,  strong,  and 
cultured  intellect,  her  mother  writes  to  an  uncle,  who  had 
failed  to  fulfil  his  promise  of  providing  for  his  niece,  rt  My 
second  daughter,  Sukey,  a  pretty  woman,  and  worthy  a 
better  fate,  when,  by  your  unkind  letters,  she  perceived  all 
her  hopes  in  you  were  frustrated,  rashly  threw  herself  upon  a 
man, — if  man  he  may  be  called  that  is  little  inferior  to  the 
apostate  angels  in  wickedness, — that  is  not  only  her  plague, 
but  a  constant  affliction  to  the  family." 

Martha,  still  more  unhappy,  was  miserably  bound  to 
The  vilest  husband,  and  the  worst  of  men, 
who,  in  his  last  hour  of  penitence,  cried,  "  I  have  injured  an 


66  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

angel !  An  angel  that  never  reproached  me  !''  "  Sister  Patty 
was  always  too  wise  to  be  witty,"  said  Charles,  her  brother. 
She  was  intellectual  and  accomplished  ;  well  read,  and  gifted 
with  conversational  powers  which  made  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson 
value  her  society.  Her  poetic  taste  was  equal  to  her  memory, 
which  enabled  her  to  quote  freely  and  at  large  from  the  best 
English  poets.  The  man  she  married  was  as  "  unstable  as 
water'' ;  was  first  betrothed  to  her  j  then  courted  her  younger 
sister  Kezia  ;  again  returned,  and  fulfilled  his  promise  to 
Martha j  plunging  her,  at  length,  into  the  miseries'  of  a  home 
polluted  and  cursed  by  an  infidel  and  licentious  apostate ; 
and  casting  a  blight  upon  her  forsaken  sister,  of  whom,  in 
her  thirty-first  year,  Charles  Wesley  says,  "Yesterday  (March 
9,  1 741)  Sister  Kezzy  died  in  the  Lord  Jesus.  He  finished 
his  work,  and  cut  it  short  in  mercy." 

Hetty,  or  Mehetabel  Wesley,  was  the  first  child  of  the 
family  born  in  Epworth,  and  was,  perhaps,  the  first  in  poetic 
rank  of  the  Epworth  Singers.  She  was  a  gay  sprightly  child, 
overflowing  with  fun,  good  nature,  and  wit.  Warm  fancy, 
sparkling  genius,  delicate  sensitiveness,  and  petulant  temper 
soon  made  themselves  known  and  felt  in  the  handsome  girl. 
Her  vigorous  poetic  talent  was  quite  equalled  by  her  early 
capacity  for  polite  and  substantial  learning.  And  though  her 
lighter  disposition  and  temper  sometimes  gave  uneasiness  to 
her  parents,  her  keen  appreciation  of  various  knowledge 
promised  ample  returns  for  their  careful  culture  of  her 
powers.  She  owed  much,  as  to  education,  to  her  father's 
brother,  Matthew  Wesley,  a  London  physician.  He  did  a 
great  deal  to  bring  out  her  distinctive  faculties,  by  making 
her  his  pet  companion  during  his  hours  of  leisure ;  and,  it 
may  be,  helped  too  fully  to  intensify  the  warmth  of  a  nature 
naturally  conscious  of  superior  ability  and  genius.  It  was 
under  his  care  that  her  fine  taste  had  its  first  excitements  and 
enjoyment.     She  never  forgot  to  sing, — 

'Twas  owing  to  his  friendly  care 

I  breathed  at  ease  the  rural  air, 

Her  ample  bounds  where  Reading  spreads, 

Where  Kennett  winds  along  the  meads, 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SIXGERS.  6j 

Where  Thompson  the  retreat  approves, 

Bv  streams  refreshed  and  gloomed  with  groves, 

Where,  from  Cadogan's  lofty  seat, 

Oar  view  surrounding  landscapes  meet. 

'Twas  there  he  made  my  leisure  blest, 

There  waked  the  muse  within  my  breast. 

Her  susceptibility  to  tender  impressions  was  soon  appa- 
rent ;  and  to  the  pressure  of  parental  checks,  especially  on 
the  part  of  her  father,  we  owe  some  of  the  first  outflowings 
of  her  tuneful  feeling  and  wit.  One  of  her  early  notes  in 
verse  has  been  found  in  her  father's  handwriting,  and  marked 
by  her  brother  John  among  his  papers  as  "  Hetty's  Letter  to 
her  Mother."     It  tells  its  own  love  tale, — 

Dear  Mother, 

You  were  once  in  the  ew'n, 
As  by  us  cakes  is  plainly  shewn, 

Who  else  had  ne'er  come  after. 
Pray  speak  a  word  in  time  of  need, 
And  with  my  sour-looked  father  plead 

For  your  distressed  daughter  ! 

Her  early  wit  was  often  sportive,  and  was  sometimes  in- 
dulged in  a  way  which  indicated  her  power,  taste,  elegant 
turn  of  mind,  and  readiness  to  give  others  a  share  of  her  own 
innocent  literary  pleasure.  She  would  sometimes  supply  the 
"  Gentleman's  Magazine  "  with 

A  RIDDLE. 

I  am  an  implement  that's  common, 

Much  occupied  by  man  and  woman  ; 

Not  very  thick  nor  very  long, 

Yet  tolerably  stiff  and  strong. 

If  inches  twelve  may  give  content, 

That    measures  much  about  my  stint. 

Sometimes  I'm  only  used  for  pleasure, 

And  then  I'm  jaded  out  of  measure  ; 

If  a  young  vigorous  bard  employs  me, 

Egad,  e'en  to  the  stumps  he  tries  me ; 

A  parson  to  get  one  in  ten, 

In  private  plies  me  now  and  then  ; 

The  lawyer,  and  the  doctor  too, 

For  fees  will  wear  me  black  and  blue. 

I  have  a  dribbling  at  the  nose, 

Which  leaves  a  stain  where'er  it  goes, 


68 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


And  yet  the  fairest  nymph  will  use  me, 
The  queen  herself  will  not  refuse  me. 
I'm  used  by  members  of  all  arts, 
Who  would  be  reckoned  men  of  parts  ; 
And  none  esteems  a  lady  polished 
Who  has  not  often  me  demolished  ; 
And  let  me  tell  you,  by  the  by, 
A  minute's  labour  drains  me  dry  ; 
I'm  now  exhausted,  so  have  done ; 
Now  who  or  what  I  am  make  known. 

While  she  could  thus  ingeniously  furnish  a  riddle  on  "  A 
Pen,"  she  was  equally  prepared  to  utter  a  tuneful  laugh  at 
the  old  philosophy  of  Metempsychosis,  or  transmigration  of 
the  soul.  Somebody,  whom  she  calls  her  sister  Sukey's 
idol,  had  seemed  disposed  to  assert  this  pagan  doctrine,  and 
she  writes  : — 

The  period  fast  comes  on  when  I 

Must  to  an  oyster  turn 
(Unless  my  Sukey's  idol  lie)  ; 

Nor  will  I  grieve  or  mourn. 

Welcome  my  transmigrated  state  ! 

I'll  for  the  worst  prepare  : 
Think  while  'tis  given  to  think  by  fate  ; 

Then  like  a  log  must  bear. 

These  eyes,  I  feel,  will  soon  depart 

(Else  Hettie  should  not  write)  ; 
Their  balls  will  to  such  pearls  convert 

As  ladies  wont  delight. 

The  pineal  gland,  from  whence,  some  say, 

Man  thinks,  reflects,  and  knows 
Whate'er  is  best, — perhaps  it  may 

The  oyster's  head  compose. 

Or  coarse  or  curious  be  the  mould, 

Whate'er  its  form  contains  ; 
That  small  peninsula  may  hold 

My  few  but  working  brains. 

Myjingers  may  the  strice  make, 

The  shell  my  parched  skin  ; 
My  nerves  and  bones  with  palsies  shake 

The  white  reverse  within. 

Perhaps  at  tide-time  I  may  wake, 

And  sip  a  little  moisture  ; 
Then  to  my  pillow  me  betake, 

And  sleep  like  brother  oyster. 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  69 

What  shall  I  dream  ?  or  what  compose  ? 

Some  harmless  rhymes  like  these  ; 
Below  the  wits,  above  the  beaux, 

Which  Poll  and  Kez  may  please. 

A  dubious  being,  hardly  life ; 

Yet  sensible  of  woe ; 
For  when  Death  comes  with  rusty  knife, 

But  few  will  meet  the  blow. 

Which  sure  my  heart,  though  once  'twas  strong, 

Will  then  nor  fly  nor  choose; 
The  pulpy  substance  will  not  long 

The  coup  de  grace  refuse. 

My  loving  oyster-kins,  which  sit 

So  fast  to  native  shell, 
Must  then  some  other  harbour  get, 

Or  in  wide  ocean  dwell. 

And  since  this  sensible  must  fail, 

I  feel  it  bend  and  sink, 
Come  age,  come  death,  you'll  soon  prevail, 

I'll  wait  you  on  the  brink. 

But  is  there  not  a  something  still 

Sprung  from  a  nobler  race, 
Above  the  passions  and  the  will, 

Which  lifts  to  heaven  its  face  ? 

There  is — I  feel  it  upward  tend, 

While  these  weak  spirits  decay, 
Which  sighs  to  meet  its  Saviour — Friend, 

And  springs  for  native  day. 

When  all  its  organs,  marred  and  worn, 

Let  Locke  say  what  he  can 
'Twill  act  still  round  itself — turn, — 

The  mind  is  still  the  man  : 

Which,  if  fair  virtue  be  my  choice, 

Above  the  stars  shall  shine  ; 
Above  want,  pain,  and  death  rejoice, 

Immortal  and  divine. 

Alas,  that  this  brilliant  playful  genius  should  become 
melancholy  and  plaintive  amidst  the  miseries  of  ill-fated 
wedlock  !     Yet  so  it  was. 

A  venerable  country  pastor  some  years  ago,  on  returning 
from  a  pastoral  round,  said  to  a  friend,  "  Among  the  daughters 
of  that  home  on  the  hill  yonder,  there  was  one  in  whom, 


JO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

somehow,  I  became  deeply  interested.  There  was  a  peculiar 
charm  about  her  person  and  manners ;  and  I  found  her  mind 
finely  cultured.  She  had  travelled  ;  was  intelligently  ac- 
quainted with  several  parts  of  Europe,  and  was  familiar  with 
their  language  and  literature.  I  observed,  however,  that  she 
wore  a  marriage  ring  ;  though  it  was  evident  that  all  allusion 
to  her  husband  was  carefully  avoided  by  the  family ;  and 
from  the  cast  of  melancholy  which  was  occasionally  apparent 
on  her  countenance  and  even  in  the  tone  of  her  voice,  I 
began  to  suspect  that  there  was  some  sorrowful  element  in 
her  history.     Do  you  know  any  thing  about  her  r  " 

M  Yes,"  said  the  friend,  "  I  never  look  at  her  without  grief. 
I  believe  I  am  correct  in  saying  that  she  was  crossed  in  her 
first  love  by  the  interference  of  her  family,  and  in  her  vexa- 
tion vowed  that  she  would  marry  the  next  man  who  made 
advances,  whoever  or  whatever  he  might  be.  The  next  man 
was  a  rude,  uncultured,  ill-savoured  sot.  She  kept  her  vow. 
With  him  she  went  to  a  distant  part  of  the  kingdom ; 
suffered  all  the  miseries  of  union  with  an  utterly  uncongenial 
and  repulsive  person,  whose  treatment  of  her  was  in  keeping 
with  his  own  selfish  nature.  He  is  now  wandering  some- 
where ;  and  she,  having  buried  her  only  child,  finds  a 
temporary  refuge  in  the  home  of  her  girlhood." 

"Poor  girl!"  was  the  pastor's  reply,  "  how  things  seem 
to  repeat  themselves.  Your  account  appears  to  be  very 
nearly  a  repetition  of  Hetty  Wesley's  case.  She  too  vowed 
rashly  when  crossed  in  her  first  choice.  It  was,  either  that 
she  would  never  marry  another,  or,  that  she  would  take  the 
first  man  that  might  offer,  whose  suit  her  parents  should 
approve.  Her  father  urged  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Wright, 
and  was  inexorable  5  while  she  was  doubly  bound  by  her 
filial  duty,  and  her  vow.  The  ill-sorted  marriage  took  place, 
and  the  husband's  character  and  conduct  broke  the  wife's 
heart." 

The  tale  is  a  sad  one.  Who  can  read  Hetty's  letter  to 
her  father  soon  after  this  fatal  knot  was  tied  without  thinking 
and  feeling  that,  in  such  cases,  tlieie  has  not  been  fair  and 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  7 1 

proper  respect  to  the  mutual  choice  of  young  hearts  j  and 
that  violence  has  been  done  to  nature  under  colour  of  parental 
prudence  and  care  ?  Who  can  see  genius  and  beauty  thus 
sacrificed  without  a  tear  ?  How  deeply  the  heart  is  moved  to 
hear  a  sensitive  poetic  soul  appealing  to  a  vulgar  sottish 
husband  in  a  strain  like  this — 

If  e'er  thou  didst  in  Hetty  see 
Aught  fair,  or  good,  or  dear  to  thee, 
If  gentle  speech  can  ever  move, 
The  cold  remains  of  former  love, 
Turn  thee  at  last — my  bosom  ease, 
Or  tell  me  why  I  cease  to  please. 

Is  it  because  revolving  years 

Heart-breaking  sighs,  and  fruitless  tears, 

Have  quite  deprived  this  form  of  mine 

Of  all  that  once  thou  fanciedst  fine  ? 

Ah  no  !  What  once  allured  thy  sight 

Is  still  in  its  meridian  height: 

These  eyes  their  usual  lustre  show, 

When  uneclipsed  by  flowing  woe. 

Old  age  and  wrinkles  in  this  face 

As  yet  could  never  find  a  place: 

A  youthful  grace  informs  these  lines, 

Where  still  the  purple  current  shines, 

Unless  by  thy  ungentle  art 

It  flies  to  aid  my  wretched  heart ; 

Nor  does  this  slighted  bosom  shew 

The  thousand  hours  it  spends  in  woe. 

Or  is  it  that,  oppressed  with  care, 

I  stun  with  loud  complaints  thine  ear; 

And  make  thy  home,  for  quiet  meant, 

The  seat  of  noise  and  discontent  ? 

Ah  no !  Those  ears  were  ever  free 

From  matrimonial  melody : 

For  though  thine  absence  I  lament 

When  half  the  lonely  night  is  spent, 

Yet  when  the  watch  or  early  morn 

Has  brought  me  hopes  of  thy  return, 

I  oft  have  wiped  these  watchful  eyes, 

Concealed  my  cares,  and  curbed  my  sighs, 

In  spite  of  grief,  to  let  thee  see 

I  wore  an  endless  smile  for  thee. 

Had  I  not  practised  every  art 
T'  oblige,  divert,  and  cheer  thy  heart, 
To  make  me  pleasing  in  thine  eyes, 
And  turn  thy  house  to  paradise ; 


7^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

I  had  not  asked,  "  Why  dost  thou  shun 

These  faithful  arms,  and  eager  run 

To  some  obscure,  unclean  retreat, 

With  fiends  incarnate  glad  to  meet, 

The  vile  companions  of  thy  mirth, 

The  scum  and  refuse  of  the  earth ; 

Who  when  inspired  by  beer  can  grin 

At  witless  oaths  and  jests  obscene, 

Till  the  most  learned  of  the  throng 

Begins  a  tale  of  ten  hours  long ; 

While  thou,  in  raptures,  with  stretched  jaws 

Crownest  each  joke  with  loud  applause  ?  " 

Deprived  of  freedom,  health,  and  ease, 

And  rivalled  by  such  things  as  these ; 

This  latest  effort  will  I  try, 

Or  to  regain  thy  heart,  or  die. 

Soft  as  I  am,  I'll  make  thee  see 

1  will  not  brook  contempt  from  thee ! 

Then  quit  the  shuffling  doubtful  sense, 
Nor  hold  me  longer  in  suspense; 
Unkind,  ungrateful  as  thou  art, 
Say,  must  I  ne'er  regain  thy  heart  ? 
Must  all  attempts  to  please  thee  prove 
Unable  to  regain  thy  love  ? 

If  so,  by  truth  itself  I  swear, 
The  sad  reverse  I  cannot  bear : 
No  rest,  no  pleasure,  will  I  see ; 
My  whole  of  bliss  is  lost  with  thee ! 
I'll  give  all  thoughts  of  patience  o'er 
(A  gift  I  never  lost  before) ; 
Indulge  at  once  my  rage  and  grief, 
Mourn  obstinate,  disdain  relief, 
And  call  that  wretch  my  mortal  foe 
Who  tries  to  mitigate  my  woe ; 
Till  life,  on  terms  severe  as  these, 
Shall,  ebbing,  leave  my  heart  at  ease ; 
To  thee  thy  liberty  restore 
To  laugh  when  Hetty  is  no  more. 

Alas,  for  the  woman  who  could  make  such  an  appeal  to 
her  husband  in  vain !  It  was  in  vain.  Nor  was  this  all.  She 
saw  her  children  wither  and  die  one  after  another  under  the 
unhealthy  fumes  which  pervaded  their  close  dwelling  in  con- 
nection with  Wright's  lead  works;  and  seemed  to  mix 
themselves  with  the  effects  of  his  influence  for  fatal  mischief 
on  the  spirits  and  health  of  his  accomplished  wife.    In  a  dim 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  73 

chamber  in  dingy  Frith  Street,  London,  amidst  the  network 
of  close  dwellings  below  Soho  Square,  with  unwholesome 
smells  of  paint  and  putty  and  whitelead  finding  their  way 
into  the  scene  of  affliction,  there  is  the  worn  mother  in  con- 
finement, languishing  in  weakness,  and  looking  in  helpless 
sorrow  on  her  dying  infant ;  until  her  overflowing  soul  calls 
on  her  stupefied  husband  to  write  from  her  lips  her  finely 
tuned  and  melting  utterance  to  the  departing  babe — 

Tender  softness  !  infant  mild ! 
Perfect,  purest,  brightest  child  ! 
Transient  lustre  !  beauteous  clay  ! 
Smiling  wonder  of  a  day  ! 
Ere  the  last  convulsive  start 
Rends  thy  unresisting  heart ; 
Ere  the  long  enduring  swoon 
Weigh  thy  precious  eyelids  down  ; 
Ah,  regard  a  mother's  moan, 
Anguish  deeper  than  thy  own. 

Fairest  eyes,  whose  dawning  light 
Late  with  rapture  blest  my  sight, 
Ere  your  orbs  extinguished  be, 
Bend  their  trembling  beams  on  me ! 

Drooping  sweetness  !  verdant  flower  ! 
Blooming,  withering  in  an  hour  ! 
Ere  thy  gentle  breast  sustains 
Latest,  fiercest,  mortal  pains, 
Hear  a  suppliant !  let  me  be 
Partner  in  thy  destiny  ! 
That  whene'er  the  fatal  cloud 
Must  thy  radiant  temples  shroud  ; 
When  deadly  damps,  impending  now, 
Shall  hover  round  thy  destined  brow, 
Diffusive  may  their  influence  be, 
And  with  the  blossom  blast  the  tree. 

These  exquisite  lines  were  put  on  paper  by  her  amanu- 
ensis in  a  style  as  rude  as  the  hand  that  used  the  pen  ;  and 
were  enclosed  in  a  note  equally  barbarous,  addressed  to  the 
Rev.  Mr.  John  Wesley.  To  think  of  such  a  correspondent 
as  the  husband  of  John  Wesley's  elegant  and  accomplished 
sister  is  to  be  prepared  for  tender  sympathy  with  the  forlorn 
woman,  when,  "  in  deep  anguish  of  spirit,"  she  wrote  : — 


74  THE     POETS     OF    METHODISM. 

Oppressed  with  utmost  weight  of  woe, 
Debarred  of  freedom,  health,  and  rest ; 

What  human  eloquence  can  show 
The  inward  anguish  of  my  breast ! 

The  finest  periods  of  discourse 

(Rhetoric  in  all  her  pompous  dress 
Unmoving)  lose  their  pointed  force, 

When  griefs  are  swelled  beyond  redress. 

Attempt  not  then  with  speeches  smooth 

My  raging  conflicts  to  control ; 
Nor  softest  sounds  again  can  soothe 

The  wild  disorder  of  my  soul ! 

Such  efforts  vain  to  end  my  fears, 

And  long-lost  happiness  restore, 
May  make  me  melt  in  fruitless  tears, 

But  charm  my  tortured  soul  no  more. 

Enable  me  to  bear  my  lot, 

O  Thou  who  only  canst  redress ! 
Eternal  God,  forsake  me  not 

In  this  extreme  of  my  distress. 

Regard  Thy  humble  suppliant's  suit ; 

Nor  let  me  long  in  anguish  pine, 
Dismayed,  abandoned,  destitute 

Of  all  support  but  only  Thine  ! 

Nor  health,  nor  life,  I  ask  of  Thee  ; 

Nor  languid  nature  to  restore  : 
Say  but  "  A  speedy  period  be 

To  these  thy  griefs," — I  ask  no  more  ! 

Nor  will  any  mother's  heart,  especially  a  heart  bereft  of 
its  children,  ever  fail  to  weep  with  her  that  wept,  while  it 
tries  to  sing  her  plaintive  yet  hopeful  verses  on  the  death  of 
her  children, — 

Though  sorer  sorrows  than  their  birth. 

Your  children's  death  has  given, 
Mourn  not  that  others  bear  for  earth, 

While  you  have  peopled  heaven  ! 

If  now  so  painful  'tis  to  part, 

O  think,  that,  when  you  meet, 
Well  bought  with  shortly  fleeting  smart 

Is  never-ending  sweet ! 

What  if  those  little  angels,  nigh 

T*  assist  your  latest  pain, 
Should  hover  round  you  when  you  die, 

And  leave  you  not  again  ! 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  75 

Say,  shall  you  then  regret  your  woes, 

Or  mourn  your  teeming  years  ? 
One  moment  will  reward  your  throes, 

And  overpay  your  tears. 

Redoubled  thanks  will  fill  your  song ; 

Transported  while  you  view 
Th'  inclining,  happy,  infant  throng ; 

That  owe  their  bliss  to  you  ! 

So  moves  the  common  star,  though  bright 

With  simple  lustre  crowned  ; 
The  planet  shines,  with  guards  of  light 

Attending  it  around. 

The  gifted  woman's  sorrows  constrained  her,  at  last,  to 
turn  to  Him  whose  gentle,  loving  heart  is  always  open  to  the 
weary  child  of  affliction.  In  the  course  of  1743,  in  a  touching 
letter  to  her  brother  John,  she  tells  the  story  of  her  espousals 
to  Jesus  and  records  her  new-born  joys  of  Christian  hope. 
From  an  allusion  in  this  letter,  she  seems  to  have  escaped 
from  -among  the  oppressive  fumes  of  Frith  Street  to  the  leafy 
heights  of  Stanmore,  looking  out,  near  Edgware,  upon  the 
rich  inland  landscapes  of  Buckinghamshire,  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  towards  the  waters  of  the  German  Ocean.  Stanmore 
will  be  all  the  more  sacred  to  the  country  rambler  who  has 
been  touched  by  the  music  of  Mrs.  Wright's  genius.  Mr. 
Duncombe,  author  of  M  The  Feminead,"  in  which  he 
celebrates  the  character  of  several  eminent  women,  Mrs. 
Wright  among  the  rest,  in  one  of  his  letters  to  Mrs.  Elizabeth 
Carter,  says  of  the  poet,  "  Mr.  Highman,  who  knew  her  when 
she  was  young,  told  me  she  was  very  handsome.  When  I 
saw  her,  she  was  in  a  languishing  way,  and  had  no  remains 
of  beauty,  except  a  lively  piercing  eye.  She  was  very  unfor- 
tunate, as  you  will  find  by  her  poems,  which  are  written  with 
great  delicacy,  but  so  tender  and  affecting  they  can  scarce  be 
read  without  tears.  I  am  told  she  wrote  some  hymns  for  the 
Methodists,  but  I  have  not  seen  any  of  them.  It  affected  me 
too  much  to  view  the  ruins  of  so  fine  a  frame  5  so  I  only 
made  her  three  or  four  visits." 

The    allusion    to   hymns   which   she   was    said    to   have 


7-5 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


"  written  for  the  Methodists  9*  affords  additional  reason  for 
classifying  this  unfortunate  but  finely  gifted  poet  with  the 
poets  of  Methodism.  And  that  her  talent  was  equal  to 
hymn  writing,  as  well  as  other  forms  of  poetry,  may  be  seen 
and  felt  in  her  hymn  entitled  "  The  Resignation  :  a  penitent 
heart  hoping  in  God." — 

Great  Power !  at  whose  almighty  hand 

Vengeance  and  comfort  ever  wait ; 
Starting  to  earth  at  Thy  command, 

To  execute  Thy  love  or  hate. 

Thy  indignation  knits  Thy  brow 

On  those  who  dare  to  sin  give  way  ; 
Bat  who  so  perfeet,  Lord,  below 

As  never  from  Thy  word  to  stray  ? 

But  when  Thy  mighty  laws  we  break, 

And  after  do  our  guilt  deplore  ; 
Thou  dost  the  word  of  comfort  speak, 

And  treasure  up  our  crimes  no  more. 

O  Thou,  Thy  mighty  grace  display, 

And  Thy  offending  servant  spare ; 
With  pain  my  body  wastes  away, 

My  weakened  limbs  with  constant  care. 

Grief  has  my  blood  and  spirits  drunk, 

My  tears  do  like  the  night-dew  fall ; 
My  cheeks  are  faded,  eyes  are  sunk, 

And  all  my  draughts  are  dashed  with  gall. 

Thou  canst  the  heavy  hand  withdraw 
That  bends  me  downward  to  the  grave, 

One  healing  touch  my  pain  can  awe, 
And  Thy  declining  servant  save. 

But  if  Thy  justice  has  decreed 

I  still  must  languish  out  my  days ; 
Support  me  in  the  time  of  need, 

Patient  to  bear  these  slow  decays. 

Lo  !  to  Thy  dreadful  will  I  bow, 

Thy  visitations  still  to  prove  ; 
Thy  judgment  do  Thy  mercies  show, 

Since,  Lord,  Thou  chastenest  in  Thy  love. 

The  plaintive  devotion  of  these  verses  indicates  her 
approach  towards  rest  from  sorrow.  That  rest  came  in  due 
time.  For  several  years  before  her  death,  she  lost  the  easy 
use  of  her  pen.     Among  her  last  efforts,  however,  her  "  Fare- 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  77 

well  to  the  World "  has  touching  revelations  respecting 
herself,  and  is  full  of  exquisite  feeling  in  its  allusion  to  her 
loved  and  lovable  little  sister  Mary  : — 

While  sickness  rends  this  tenement  of  clay, 

Th'  approaching  change  with  pleasure  I  survey  ; 

O'erjoyed  to  reach  the  goal,  with  eager  face, 

Ere  my  slow  life  has  measured  half  its  race. 

No  longer  shall  I  bear,  my  friends  to  please, 

The  hard  constraint  of  seeming  much  at  ease  ; 

Wearing  an  outward  smile,  a  look  serene, 

While  piercing  racks  and  tortures  work  within. 

But  let  me  not,  ungrateful  to  my  God, 

Record  the  evil,  and  forget  the  good : 

For  both  I  humble  adoration  pay, 

And  bless  the  Power  who  gives  and  takes  away. 

Long  shall  my  faithful  memory  retain 

And  oft  recall  each  interval  of  pain. 

Nay,  to  high  Heaven  for  greater  gifts  I  bend  ; 

Health  I've  enjoyed,  and  I  had  once  a  friend  I 

Our  labour  sweet,  if  labour  it  might  seem, 

Allowed  the  sportive  and  instructive  scene. 

Yet  here  no  lewd  or  useless  wit  was  found; 

We  poised  the  wavering  sail  with  ballast  sound. 

Learning  here  placed  her  richest  stores  in  view, 

Or  winged  with  love,  the  minutes  gaily  flew. 

Nay,  yet  sublimer  joy  our  bosoms  proved, 

Divine  benevolence,  by  heaven  beloved. 

Wan  meagre  forms,  torn  from  impending  death, 

Exulting,  blest  us  with  reviving  breath. 

The  shivering  wretch  we  clothed,  the  mourner  cheered, 

And  sickness  ceased  to  groan  when  we  appeared. 

Unasked,  our  care  assists  with  tender  art 

Their  bodies,  nor  neglects  the  immortal  part. 

Sometimes  in  shades  unpierced  by  Cynthia's  beam, 

Whose  lustre  glittered  on  the  dimpled  stream, 

We  wandered  innocent  through  sylvan  scenes, 

Or  tripped  like  fairies  o'er  the  level  greens. 

From  fragrant  herbage  decked  with  pearly  dews, 

And  flowerets  of  a  thousand  different  hues 

By  wafting  gales  the  mingling  odours  fly, 

And  round  our  heads  in  whispering  breezes  sigh. 

Whole  nature  seems  to  heighten  and  improve 

The  holier  hours  of  innocence  and  love. 

Youth,  wit,  good-nature,  candour,  sense  combined 

To  serve,  delight,  and  civilize  mankind; 

In  wisdom's  love  we  every  heart  engage, 

And  triumph  to  restore  the  Golden  Age ! 

Nor  close  the  blissful  scene,  exhausted  muse, 
The  latest  blissful  scene  that  thou  shalt  choose; 


/8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Satiate  with  life,  what  joys  for  me  remain, 
Save  one  dear  wish,  to  balance  every  pain, — 
To  bow  my  head,  with  grief  and  toil  opprest, 
Till  borne  by  angel-bands  to  everlasting  rest ! 

"  It  is  but  justice  to  her  memory,"  says  her  brother  John, 
to  observe  that  she  was  at  '  rest '  before  she  went  hence, 
being  for  some  years  a  witness  of  '  that  rest '  which  remains 
even  here,  (  for  the  people  of  God.'  "  On  the  5th  of  March, 
1 750,  "  I  prayed  by  my  sister  Wright,"  says  her  brother 
Charles,  "  a  gracious,  tender,  trembling  soul j  a  bruised  reed 
which  the  Lord  will  not  break."  On  the  14th  of  the  same 
month,  u  I  found  her,''  he  says,  "very  near  the  haven  ;  and 
again,  on  the  21st,  at  four  I  called  on  my  brother  Wright, 
a  few  minutes  after  her  spirit  was  set  at  liberty.  I  had  sweet 
fellowship  with  her  in  explaining  at  the  chapel  those  solemn 
words,  '  Thy  sun  shall  no  more  go  down,  neither  shall  thy 
moon  withdraw  itself ;  for  the  Lord  shall  be  thine  everlasting 
light,  and  the  days  of  thy  mourning  shall  be  ended.'  All 
present  seemed  partakers  both  of  my  sorrow  and  my  joy. — 
Monday,  March  26th,  I  followed  her  to  her  quiet  grave,  and 
wept  with  them  that  wept."  Where  that  "  quiet  grave  "  is, 
none  can  now  tell. 

Of  the  three  brothers  in  the  Epworth  group,  John  Wesley 
was,  remarkably  enough,  like  the  majority  of  his  sisters  in  this, 
that  he  was  crossed,  and  more  than  they,  crossed  and  crossed 
again  in  his  earlier  approaches  towards  wedded  life ;  and 
found,  at  last,  that  a  marriage  of  mere  convenience  is  close 
enough  upon  evil  to  prove,  semetimes,  as  in  his  case,  the 
greatest  cross  of  all.  A  gay  and  sprightly  young  Oxford 
student,  given  to  wit  and  humour,  when  just  twenty-one, 
"  appearing,"  as  a  contemporary  said,  "  the  very  sensible  and 
acute  Collegian,  a  young  fellow  of  the  finest  classical  taste, 
of  the  most  liberal  and  manly  sentiments,"  might  be  expected 
to  show  himself  open  to  tender  impressions  ;  and  if  his  genius 
were  poetic,  his  first  tuneful  effusions  would  shew  his  heart's 
susceptibility.  His  wit  and  taste  would  take  a  gentle  turn. 
So  it  was  with  the  young  Oxonian  3  and  there  is  a  pleasant 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  79 

naturalness  of  humour  in  a  letter  of  his  to  his  brother  Samuel, 
who  had  unfortunately  broken  his  leg,  while  in  the  attached 
verses  he  shows  himself  capable  of  giving  expression  to  a 
quiet  laugh  in  a  musical  and  elegant  way.  "  I  believe,"  says 
he,  "  I  need  not  use  many  arguments  to  show  I  am  sorry  for 
your  misfortune,  though  at  the  same  time  I  am  glad  you  are 
in  a  fair  way  of  recovery.  If  I  heard  it  from  any  one  else,  I 
might  probably  have  pleased  you  with  some  impertinent  con- 
solations j  but  the  way  of  your  relating  it  is  a  sufficient  proof 
that  they  are  what  you  don't  stand  in  need  of.  And,  indeed, 
if  I  understand  you  rightly,  you  have  more  reason  to  thank 
God  that  you  did  not  break  both,  than  to  repine  because  you 
have  broke  one  leg.  You  have  undoubtedly  heard  the  story 
of  the  Dutch  seaman,  who,  having  broke  one  of  his  legs  by  a 
fall  from  the  main-mast,  instead  of  condoling  himself,  thanked 
God  that  he  had  not  broken  his  neck.  I  scarce  knew 
whether  your  first  news  vexed  me,  or  your  last  news  pleased 
me  more :  but  I  can  assure  you  that  though  I  did  not  cry  for 
grief  at  the  former,  I  did  for  joy  at  the  latter  part  of  your 
letter.  The  two  things  which  I  most  wished  for  of  almost 
anything  in  the  world,  were  to  see  my  mother  and  West- 
minster once  again,  and  to  see  them  both  together  was  so 
far  above  my  expectations  that  I  almost  looked  upon  it  as  an 
impossibility.  .  .  Since  you  have  a  mind  to  see  some  of 
my  verses,  I  have  sent  you  some  which  employed  me  above 
an  hour  yesterday  in  the  afternoon.  There  is  one,  and  I  am 
afraid  but  one,  good  thing  in  them,  that  is,  they  are  short. 

"FROM  THE  LATIN. 

As  o'er  fair  Cloe's  rosy  cheek 

Careless  a  little  vagrant  pass'd, 
With  artful  hand  around  his  neck 

A  slender  chain  the  virgin  cast. 

As  Juno  near  her  throne  above, 

Her  spangled  bird  delights  to  see  ; 
As  Venus  has  her  fav'rite  dove, 

Cloe  shall  have  her  fav'rite  flea. 


80  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Pleased  at  his  chains,  with  nimble  steps 

He  o'er  her  snowy  bosom  stray'd  : 
Now  on  her  panting  breast  he  leaps, 

Now  hides  between  his  little  head. 

Leaving  at  length  his  old  abode, 

He  found,  by  thirst  or  fortune  led, 
Her  swelling  lips  that  brighter  glow'd 

Than  roses  in  their  native  bed. 

Cloe  your  artful  hands  undo, 

Nor  for  your  captive's  safety  fear, 
No  artful  bands  are  needful  now 

To  heed  the  little  vagrant  here. 

Whilst  on  that  heav'n  'tis  giv'n  to  stay 
(Who  would  not  wish  to  be  so  blest), 

No  force  can  draw  him  once  away, 

'Till  death  shall  seize  his  destin'd  breast." 

On  March  17th,  1726,  the  young  poetical  student  was 
elected  Fellow  of  Lincoln  College,  and  grave  work  awaited 
him.  He  acted  on  his  good  mother's  advice,  however.  "  I 
would  not  have  you  leave  off  making  verses,  rather  make 
poetry  sometimes  your  diversion,  though  never  your  busi- 
ness." In  a  letter  to  his  brother  soon  after  his  election  to 
the  Fellowship,  he  writes,  "  The  most  tolerable  of  my  own 
verses  you  probably  received  from  Leyburn.  Some  of  those 
I  had  besides  I  have  sent  here ;  and  shall  be  very  glad  if 
they  are  capable  of  being  so  corrected  as  to  be  of  any  service 
to  you."  Though  sent  in  their  rough  as  the  amusement  of 
a  leisure  hour,  they  are  evidence  enough  of  his  native  poetic 
talent.     One  is  after  Horace. 

Integrity  needs  no  defence ; 
The  man  who  trusts  to  innocence, 
Nor  wants  the  darts  ATumidia?is  throw, 
Nor  arrows  of  the  Parthian  bow, 

Secure  o'er  Lyl-ia's  sandy  seas, 
Or  hoary  Caucasus  he  strays, 
O'er  regions  scarcely  known  to  fame, 
Wash'd  by  Hydaspes1  fabled  stream. 

While  void  of  cares,  of  naught  afraid, 
Late  in  the  Sabine  woods  I  stray'd ; 
On  Sylvia's  lips  while  pleas'd  I  sung 
How  love  and  soft  persuasion  hung ! 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  8l 

A  rav'nous  wolf  intent  on  food 
Rush'd  from  the  covert  of  the  wood  ; 
Yet  dar'd  not  violate  the  grove 
Secur'd  by  innocence  and  love. 

Nor  Mauritania's  sultry  plain, 
So  large  a  savage  does  contain  ; 
Nor  e'er  so  huge  a  monster  treads 
Warlike  Apulia's  beechen  shades. 

Place  me  where  no  revolving  sun 
Does  o'er  this  radiant  circle  run  ; 
Where  clouds  and  damp  alone  appear, 
And  poison  the  unwholesome  year : 

Place  me  in  that  effulgent  day 
Beneath  the  sun's  directer  ray ; 
No  change  from  its  fix'd  place  shall  move 
The  basis  of  my  lasting  love. 

The  elegant  young  scholar  who  thus  sang  of  love  was  not 
to  be  without  heart  experience  of  its  charms.  But  he  was 
seemingly  fated  to  be  held  in  check,  or  left  defeated  in  his 
hopes.  His  tender  correspondence  with  Betsy,  the  sister  of  his 
friend  Robert  Kirkham,  was  interrupted.  His  pleasant  inter- 
course with  the  beautiful  and  accomplished  Mary  Granville, 
afterwards  Mrs.  Delany,  quietly  ceased.  His  subsequent 
expectations  of  happiness  in  union  with  Sophia  Christiana 
Hopkey,  in  Georgia,  were  cut  off.  And,  to  his  bitter  disap- 
pointment in  later  life,  as  to  marriage  with  Grace  Murray,  we 
owe  the  outflowing  of  his  feeling  in  characteristic  verse, — 

O  Lord !  I  bow  my  sinful  head  ! 

Righteous  are  all  Thy  ways  with  man ! 
Yet  suffer  me  with  Thee  to  plead, 

With  lowly  reverence  to  complain  ; 
With  deep  unutter'd  grief  to  groan ; 
Oh !  what  is  this  that  Thou  hast  done  ? 


Unsearchable  Thy  judgments  are, 
O  Lord,  a  bottomless  abyss ; 

Yet  sure  Thy  love,  Thy  guardian  care, 
O'er  all  Thy  works  extended  is, 

Oh  !  why  didst  Thou  the  blessing  send  ? 

Or  why  thus  snatch  away  my  friend  ? 


82  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

What  Thou  hast  done,  I  know  not  now, 

Suffice  I  shall  hereafter  know, 
Beneath  Thy  chastening  hand  I  bow  ; 

That  still  I  live,  to  thee  I  owe. 
Oh  !  teach  thy  deeply-humbled  son 
To  say,  "  Father,  Thy  will  be  done." 

Teach  me  from  every  pleasing  snare 

To  keep  the  issue  of  my  heart ; 
Be  Thou  my  Love,  my  Joy,  my  Fear ; 

Thou  my  Eternal  Portion  art. 
Be  Thou  my  never-failing  Friend, 
And  love,  oh,  love  me,  to  the  end. 

It  is  pleasant  to  see  so  much  of  human  naturalness  in  one 
the  sacred  and  happy  results  of  whose  life  and  labours  invest 
his  name  with  ever  brightening  honours.  Had  his  affections 
been  happily  met,  had  his  heart  found  repose  in  a  worthy 
"  help-meet,"  would  such  permanent  honour  and  blessing 
have  illuminated  his  memory  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  Though  in 
his  college  days,  when  his  classical  knowledge  gave  polish 
and  elegance  to  his  effusions,  John  Wesley  amused  himself 
with  sprightly  composition,  his  finely  balanced  character  would 
find  opportunity  for  giving  tuneful  utterance  to  graver  thought 
and  devout  feeling.  Just  as  he  came  of  age,  he  wrote  an 
imitation  of  the  65th  Psalm,  which  secured  the  approval 
of  his  tasteful  and  venerable  father.  u  I  like  your  verses," 
said  the  venerable  poet,  "  and  would  not  have  you  bury  your 
talent."  His  talent  was  not  buried.  Poetic  inspiration 
came  upon  him  in  his  birthplace  in  1726.  He  had  spent  the 
summer  in  the  old  seat  of  the  Epworth  Singers,  and  amidst 
the  first-fruits  of  the  harvest  in  the  old  farm  on  the  hill,  he 
began  his  fine  metrical  paraphrase  on  the  first  eighteen 
verses  of  the  104th  Psalm,  and  proved  by  his  faithfulness  to 
the  inspired  version,  the  beauty,  strength,  and  harmony  of 
his  English  verse,  that  he  was  a  worthy  member  of  that 
remarkable  family  choir  of  Psalmists.  This  is  the  most 
finished  of  John's  early  songs  : — 

Upborne  aloft  on  venturous  wing, 

While  spurning  earthly  themes  I  soar 

Through  paths  untrod  before, 
What  god,  what  seraph  shall  I  sing  ? 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  83 

Whom  but  Thee  should  I  proclaim, 
Author  of  this  wondrous  frame  ; 

Eternal,  uncreated  Lord, 
Enshrin'd  in  glory's  radiant  blaze! 

At  whose  prolific  voice,  whose  potent  word 
Commanded  Nothing  swift  retir'd,  and  worlds  began  their  race. 

Thou,  brooding  o'er  the  realms  of  night, 
Th'  unbottom'd,  infinite  abyss, 
Bad'st  the  deep  her  rage  surcease, 

And  said'st,  "  Let  there  be  light !  " 

Ethereal  Light  Thy  call  obey'd, 

Glad  she  left  her  native  shade, 
Through  the  wide  void  her  living  waters  past  ; 

Darkness  turn'd  his  murmuring  head, 

Resign'd  the  reins,  and  trembling  fled ; 
The  crystal  waves  roll'd  on,  and  filled  the  ambient  waste. 

In  light,  effulgent  robe,  array'd, 

Thou  left'st  the  beauteous  realms  of  day ; 
The  golden  towers  inclin'd  their  head, 

As  their  Sov' reign  took  his  way. 

The  all-encircling  bounds  (a  shining  train, 
Minist'ring  flames  around  Him  flew) 
Through  the  vast  profound  He  drew, 

When,  lo  !  sequacious  to  His  fruitful  hand, 
Heaven  o'er  the  uncolour'd  void  her  azure  curtain  threw. 

Lo !  marching  o'er  the  empty  space, 

The  fluid  stores  in  order  rise, 
With  adamantine  chains  of  liquid  glass, 

To  bind  the  new-born  fabric  of  the  skies. 
Downward  th'  Almighty  Builder  rode, 
Old  Chaos  groan' d  beneath  the  God, 
Sable  clouds  His  pompous  car, 

Harness'd  winds  before  Him  ran, 

Proud  to  wear  their  Maker's  chain, 
And  told,  with  hoarse-resounding  voice,  His  coming  from  afar. 

Embryon  earth  the  signal  knew, 
And  rear'd  from  night's  dark  womb  her  infant  head, 
Though  yet  prevailing  waves  her  hills  o'erspread, 

And  stain'd  their  sickly  face  with  pallid  hue. 
But  when  loud  thunders  the  pursuit  began, 
Back  the  affrighted  spoilers  ran  ; 
In  vain,  aspiring  hills  opposed  their  race, 

O'er  hills  and  vales  with  equal  haste, 

The  flying  squadrons  past, 
Till  safe  within  the  walls  of  their  appointed  place  : 
There  firmly  fix'd,  their  sure  enclosures  stand, 
Unconquerable  bounds  of  ever-during  sand  I 


84  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

He  spake  !     From  the  tall  mountain's  wounded  side, 
Fresh  springs  roll'd  down  their  silver  tide: 

O'er  the  glad  vales  the  shining  wanderers  stray, 
Soft  murmuring  as  they  flow, 
While  in  their  cooling  wave  inclining  low, 

The  untaught  natives  of  the  field  their  parching  thirst  allay. 
High  seated  on  the  dancing  sprays, 

Chequering  with  varied  light  their  parent  streams, 
The  feather'd  choirs  attune  their  artless  lays, 

Safe  from  the  dreaded  heat  of  solar  beams. 

Genial  showers  at  His  command, 
Pour  plenty  o'er  the  barren  land : 
Labouring  with  parent  throes, 
See !  the  teeming  hills  disclose 
A  new  birth  ;  see  cheerful  green, 
Transitory,  pleasing  scene, 
O'er  the  smiling  landscape  glow, 
And  gladden  all  the  vale  below. 
Along  the  mountain's  craggy  brow, 
Amiably  dreadful  now ! 
See  the  clasping  vine  dispread 
Her  gently-rising  verdant  head ; 
See  the  purple  grape  appear, 
Kind  relief  of  human  care  ! 

Instinct  with  circling  life,  Thy  skill 

Uprear'd  the  olive's  loaded  bough  ; 
What  time  on  Lebanon's  proud  hill, 

Slow  rose  the  stately  cedar's  brow. 
Nor  less  rejoice  the  lowly  plains, 

Of  useful  corn  the  fertile  bed, 
Than  when  the  lordly  cedar  reigns, 

A  beauteous,  but  a  barren  shade. 
While  in  His  arms  the  painted  train, 

Warbling  to  the  vocal  grove, 
Sweetly  tell  their  pleasing  pain, 

Willing  slaves  to  genial  love. 
While  the  wild-goats,  an  active  throng, 

From  rock  to  rock  light-bounding  fly, 
Jehovah's  praise  in  solemn  song 

Shall  echo  through  the  vaulted  sky. 

About  five  years  after  the  birth  of  John  Wesley,  a  little 
puny  thing  was  "  born  out  of  due  time  "  in  the  old  Epworth 
Parsonage.  Its  eyes  were  as  yet  shut  against  the  light.  It 
gave  no  voice,  and,  scarcely  betokening  much  life,  it  was  kept 
nestled  in  soft  wool  till  its  natural  birthday,  when  its  eye-lids 
were  lifted,  and  its  first  cry  was  given.  Who  would  have  ven- 
tured to  prophesy  that  those  eyes  would  be  so  alive  to  beauty 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  8^ 

for  nearly  eighty  years,  and  that  that  voice  would,  through 
a  long  life,  pour  forth  a  continuous  succession  of  holy  songs 
from  the  depths  of  a  consecrated  musical  soul  ?  Yet  so  it 
happened  with  Charles  Wesley.  The  delicate  child  grew, 
under  parental  care  and  discipline,  and  became,  by-and-by, 
the  rollicking  young  student  at  Oxford.  His  poetical  passion 
sometimes  became  a  frenzy.  In  the  rage  of  composition 
he  would,  at  times,  commit  sad  breaches  on  his  brother 
John's  order  and  method  •  talking  incoherently,  while  his 
inner  genius  was  at  work  ;  overturning  the  study  table,  by 
suiting  his  action  to  his  thought ;  spouting  a  few  lines,  and 
then  scattering  the  books,  so  as  to  turn  the  retreat  of  learning 
into  a  chaos,  while  he  was  conceiving  his  harmonies  of  rhyme 
and  rhythm.  Nothing  of  the  early  outnowings  of  his  soul 
remains  but  the  burning,  torturing  satire  which  he  sent  to 
his  sister  Martha  on  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Hall.  Charles 
knew  that  the  wretched  Hall  had  promised  to  marry  his 
younger  sister,  Kezia,  but  had  no  knowledge  of  Martha's 
previous  betrothal  to  him  ;  so  that  when  he  heard  of  the 
marriage  of  Hall  and  the  elder  sister,  he  charged  her  with 
guilty  union  with  Kezia's  affianced  husband.  He  was  hasty, 
and,  in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  sent  her  a  poetic  epistle,  the 
closing  lines  of  which  are  enough  to  show  its  character  and 
to  prove  his  early  poetic  power  : — 

No — wert  thou  as  thou  wast,  did  heaven's  first  rays 
Beam  on  thy  soul,  and  ail  the  Godhead  blaze, 
Sooner  shall  sweet  oblivion  set  us  free 
From  friendship,  love,  thy  perfidy  and  thee  ; 
Sooner  shall  light  in  league  with  darkness  join, 
Virtue  and  vice,  and  heaven  and  hell,  combine, 
Than  her  pure  soul  consent  to  mix  with  thine  j 
To  share  thy  sin,  adopt  thy  perjury, 
And  damn  herself  to  be  revenged  on  thee ; 
To  load  her  conscience  with  a  sister's  blood, 
The  guilt  of  incest,  and  the  curse  of  God. 

The  poet  retained  this  capacity  for  scathing  satirical  verse 
to  the  last.  It  was  put  forth  now  and  then.  Nor  could 
age  chill  this  vein  of  satire.  Only  four  years  before  his 
death,  he  pictures  "  The  Man  of  Fashion." 


86  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"What  is  a  modern  man  of  fashion  ? 
A  man  of  taste  and  dissipation ; 
A  busy  man,  without  employment ; 
A  happy  man,  without  enjoyment ; 
Who  squanders  all  his  time  and  treasures 
In  empty  joys,  and  tasteless  pleasures  ; 
Visits,  attendance,  and  attention, 
And  courtly  arts  too  low  to  mention  ; 
In  sleep,  and  dress,  and  sport  and  play, 
He  throws  his  worthless  life  away  ; 
Has  no  opinion  of  his  own, 
But  takes  from  leading  beaux  the  ton  ; 
Born  to  be  flatter'd,  and  to  flatter, 
The  most  important  thing  in  nature, 
"Wrapt  up  in  self-sufficient  pride, 
With  his  own  virtues  satisfied  ; 
With  a  disdainful  smile  or  frown 
He  on  the  riffraff  crowd  looks  down  ; 
The  world  polite,  his  friends  and  he, 
And  all  the  rest  are — nobody. 
Taught  by  the  great  his  smiles  to  sell, 
And  how  to  write,  and  how  to  spell, 
The  great  his  oracles  he  makes, 
Copies  their  vices  and  mistakes, 
Custom  pursues,  his  only  rule, 
And  lives  an  ape,  and  dies  a  fool ! 

Charles  Wesley.,  however,  had  higher  work  than  mere 
satire,  which,  after  all,  he  indulged  in  but  seldom.  His 
conversion,  by  the  instrumentality  of  a  good  Moravian 
woman,  turned  all  his  powers  into  a  devotional  current,  and 
hymn-writing  became  the  business  and  joy  of  his  life.  On 
the  third  day  from  that  of  his  first  joy  in  Christ,  "  I  waked," 
says  he,  "  under  the  protection  of  Christ,  and  gave  myself 
up,  soul  and  body,  to  Him.  At  nine  I  began  a  hymn  upon 
my  conversion,  but  was  persuaded  to  break  off,  for  fear  of 
pride.  Mr.  Bray  coming,  encouraged  me  to  proceed  in  spite 
of  Satan.  I  prayed  to  Christ  to  stand  by  me,  and  finished 
the  hymn."  The  spiritual  song,  thus  composed  under  the 
tremulous  sensitiveness  of  "  first  love,"  was  soon  taken  up 
by  joyful  voices  in  celebration  of  his  brother  John's  new 
birth.  On  the  very  evening  after  it  was  composed,  "  towards 
ten,"  he  says,  "  my  brother  was  brought  in  triumph  by  a 
troop  of  our  friends,  and  declared, '  I  believe.'  We  sang  the 
hymn  with  great  joy." 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  87 

Where  shall  my  wondering  soul  begin  ? 

How  shall  I  all  to  heaven  aspire  ? 
A  slave  redeemM  from  death  and  sin, 

A  brand  pluck'd  fiom  eternal  fire, 
How  shall  I  equal  triumphs  raise, 
And  sing  my  great  Deliverer's  praise  ? 

O  !  how  shall  I  the  goodness  tell, 

Father,  which  Thou  to  me  hast  show'd  ? 
That  I,  a  child  of  wrath  and  hell, 

I  should  be  call'd  a  child  of  God  ! 
Should  know,  should  feel  my  sins  forgiven, 
Blest  with  this  antepast  of  heaven  ! 

And  shall  I  slight  my  Father's  love, 

Or  basely  fear  His  gifts  to  own? 
Unmindful  of  His  favours  prove? 

Shall  I,  the  hallow'd  cross  to  shun, 
Refuse  His  righteousness  to  impart, 
By  hiding  it  within  my  heart? 

No  !  though  the  ancient  dragon  rage, 

And  call  forth  all  his  hosts  to  war  ; 
Though  earth's  self-righteous  sons  engage  ; 

Them,  and  their  god,  alike  I  dare ; 
Jesus,  the  sinner's  Friend,  proclaim  ; 
Jesus,  to  sinners  still  the  same. 

Outcasts  of  men,  to  you  I  call, 

Harlots,  and  publicans,  and  thieves  ! 
He  spreads  His  arms  to  embrace  you  all ; 

Sinners  alone  His  grace  receives  : 
No  need  of  Him  the  righteous  have, 
He  came  the  lost  to  seek  and  save. 

Come,  all  ye  Magdalens  in  lust, 

Ye  ruffians  fell  in  murders  old ; 
Repent,  and  live  ;  despair  and  trust ! 

Jesus  for  you  to  death  was  sold  : 
Though  hell  protest,  and  earth  repine, 
He  died  for  crimes  like  yours — and  mine. 

Come,  O  my  guilty  brethren,  come, 

Groaning  beneath  your  load  of  sin  ! 
His  bleeding  heart  shall  make  you  room, 

His  open  side  shall  take  you  in. 
He  calls  you  now,  invites  you  home : 
Come,  O  my  guilty  brethren,  come ! 

For  you  the  purple  current  flow'd 

In  pardons  from  His  wounded  side: 
Languish'd  for  you  the  eternal  God, 

For  you  the  Prince  of  Glory  died. 
Believe,  and  all  your  guilt's  forgiven  ; 
Only  believe — and  yours  is  heaven. 


88 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


What  a  flood  of  spiritual  song  followed  that  remarkable 
conversion  hymn  ! 

Charles  Wesley's  disposition,  temper,  training,  and  accom- 
plishments, as  well  as  his  distinctive  genius  and  taste,  pre- 
pared him  for  his  life-task  as  a  hymnist.  His  Biblical 
knowledge  and  his  elegant  classical  learning  were  always 
under  command  in  the  pursuit  of  his  great  object,  and  were 
sometimes  amusingly  made  to  serve  his  humour  in  self- 
defence  or  self-control.  His  brother's  turbulent  wife  once 
succeeded  in  entrapping  him  and  John  in  a  room  from 
which,  for  the  time,  there  was  no  escape,  and  there  she 
opened  on  them  a  running  volley  of  complaints.  The  poet 
called  Virgil  to  his  help,  and  kept  up  so  vehement  and  rapid 
a  rehearsal  of  Latin  verse  as  to  "  tame  the  shrew,"  and  con- 
strain her  to  give  them  freedom.  He  was  little  in  stature 
like  his  brother;  but  he  could  make  himself  felt,  especially 
by  those  who  were  forward,  self-complacent,  or  pert.  His 
reproofs  could  be  hard  and  sharp.  Hypocrisy  and  affecta- 
tion always  felt  his  frown.  But  he  was  frank,  generous,  and 
steady  as  a  friend  ;  was  pleasing,  instructive,  and  cheerful  as 
a  companion,  humorous,  witty,  and  good.  His  powers  of 
expression,  whether  in  the  pulpit,  or  by  the  pen  as  a  hymnist, 
were  marked  by  simplicity  and  energy.  He  went  on  his 
way  hymning  through  life.  And  his  name  is  balmy  and 
immortal,  not  only  because  of  his  multitude  of  songs,  but 
for  the  beautiful  completeness  and  rich  variety  of  his  rhyme, 
the  pleasant  variations  of  his  metre,  his  happy  union  ot 
strong  argument  and  melodious  diction,  and  his  genuine  and 
tasteful  setting  of  evangelical  truth.  Hymns  broke  from 
his  finely  tuned  soul  wherever  he  moved.  Inspiration  was 
often  caught  in  the  saddle.  That  mode  of  travel  seemed 
favourable  to  his  creation  of  harmony ;  though  sometimes  it 
had  its  disadvantages.  "  Near  Ripley,"  says  he  in  the  May 
of  1743,  "  my  horse  threw  and  fell  upon  me  ....  which 
spoiled  my  making  hymns,  or  thinking  at  all,  till  the  next 
day."  The  dear  old  poet  used  to  be  seen,  when  he  was 
near  eighty,  riding  about  in  London  on  a  little  old  grey  pony  5 


OTHERS    OF    THE    EPWORTH    SINGERS.  89 

and  now  and  then,  as  he  jogged  along,  his  inward  melodies 
would  rise,  and  then  out  would  come  a  small  card  from  the 
well-stored  pocket,  and  there  would  be  pencil  short-hand 
jottings  by  the  way.  As  soon  as  City  Road  was  reached, 
the  honoured  nag  was  left  to  ruminate  in  front,  while  its 
master,  with  a  soul  bubbling  up  with  rhyme  and  rhythm, 
would  call  for  pen  and  ink,  that  the  full  measure  of  his 
devotional  music  might  find  permanent  life.  Just  before  he 
departed  to  the  home  of  poetry  and  music,  he  breathed  out 
his  last  prayerful  lines — 

In  age  and  feebleness  extreme, 
Who  shall  a  helpless  worm  redeem  ? 
Jesus  !  my  only  hope  Thou  art, 
Strength  of  my  failing  flesh  and  heart ; 
Oh  !  could  I  catch  one  smile  from  Thee 
And  drop  into  eternity  ! 

The  songs  of  his  pilgrimage  ceased  on  the  29th  of  March, 
1788,  and  in  the  old  graveyard  of  St.  Marylebone  an 
epitaph,  which  he  had  written  on  the  death  of  a  good  Mora- 
vian minister,  was  put  on  his  own  sepulchre  stone,  by  those 
who  felt  that  it  was  beautifully  appropriate  to  the  author 
himself : — 

With  poverty  of  spirit  bless'd, 
Rest,  happy  saint,  in  Jesus  rest ; 
A  sinner  saved,  through  grace  forgiven, 
Redeem'd  from  earth  to  reign  in  heaven ! 
Thy  labours  of  unwearied  love, 
By  Thee  forgot,  are  crown'd  above  ; 
Crown'd,  through  the  mercy  of  thy  Lord, 
With  a  free,  full,  immense  reward  ! 


9o 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  V. 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG. 


Give  me  thy  hand,  brother — give  me  thy  hand, 
But  not  as  our  fathers  did,  dropping  with  gore  ; 

Dash  down  the  gauntlet,  and  shiver  the  brand, 
But  not  in  the  fashion  they  did  so  of  yore  ; 

Throw  away  war's  array,  and  come,  let  us  prove 

Which  has  the  heart  that  is  strongest  in  love. 


HAT  spiritually  minded  and  exemplary  Christian, 
whose  devout  diary  has  so  often  aided  the  pious 
soul,  Joseph  Williams  of  Kidderminster,  once 
visited  Bristol,  and  had  an  interview  with  Charles 
Wesley.  It  was  on  October  8th,  1739,  when 
Wesley  "  preached  the  word  of  reconciliation  at  the  brick- 
yard." 

"  Hearing,"  says  Williams,  "  that  Mr.  Charles  Wesley 
would  preach  in  the  afternoon,  just  out  of  the  city,  I  got  a 
guide,  and  went  to  hear  him.  ...  I  then  went  with  him 
to  a  religious  society,  which  met  about  seven  in  the  evening. 
....  Never  did  I  hear  such  praying  or  such  singing.  .  .  . 
Their  singing  was  not  only  the  most  harmonious  and  delight- 
ful I  ever  heard,  but,  as  Mr.  Whitefield  writes  in  his  Journals, 
they  '  sang  lustily,  and  with  a  good  courage.'  I  never  so 
well  understood  the  meaning  of  that  expression  before.  .  .  . 
If  there  be  such  a  thing  as  heavenly  music  upon  earth,  I 
heard  it  there."  The  secret  of  that  charm  which  Primitive 
Methodist  singing  had  for  the  soul  of  this  good  man  was 
found  in  the  fine  adaptation  of  the  tunes  to  the  spirit,  power, 
and  music  of  the  hymns  ;  and  in  the  naturalness,  spiritual 
harmony,  devout  warmth,  and  oneness  of  the  singers.    It  was 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  $ L 

genuine  praise,  words,  tones,  and  feeling,  all  in  harmony,  after 

the  manner  of  Charles  Wesley's  inspiring  version  of  the  150th 

Psalm  :— 

Publish,  spread  to  all  around 

The  great  Jehovah's  name; 
Let  the  trumpet's  martial  sound 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  proclaim. 
Praise  Him  in  the  sacred  dance, 

Harmony's  full  concert  raise ; 
Let  the  virgin-choir  advance, 

And  move  but  to  His  praise. 

Celebrate  th'  Eternal  God 

With  harp  and  psaltery; 
Timbrels  soft,  and  cymbals  loud, 

In  His  high  praise  agree. 
Praise  Him  every  tuneful  string, 

All  the  reach  of  heavenly  art ; 
All  the  power  of  music  bring, 

The  music  of  the  heart. 

There  are  tokens  that  such  singing  as  Williams  heard  at 
Bristol  is  passing  away  from  Methodism  ;  passing  away  in 
favour  of  the  soft,  nerveless,  soulless,  namby-pamby  toning, 
fashionable,  now-a-day,  among  those  who  utter  their  hymns 
both  "  Ancient  and  Modern,"  as  if  they  were 

Chanting  faint  hymns  to  the  cold  fruitless  moon. 

The  clarion  ring  of  early   Methodist   voices,    the  joyful 
swing  and  swell  and  expressive  repeat ;  now  from  men,  and 
now  from  women,  are  becoming  things  of  the  past.     Such 
singing,  indeed,  must  die  out  from  among  those  who  are 
losing  the  singing  power,  as  they  fall  into  pitiable  dependence 
on    organs    and   choirs.      This   change  may  be  the  rather 
deplored  in  that  the  declension  of  Methodist  music  is  accom- 
panied by  a  declining  taste  for  the  spiritual  intensity  and  lofty 
heavenliness   of  original   Methodist  hymns.     An  unhealthy 
taste  for  mere  artistic  sounds  is  symptomatic  of  a  lowered 
tone  of  spiritual  life.     The  two  brothers  in  song,  the  Wesleys, 
ceaselessly    aimed   at   keeping   up  a   consistent    accordance 
between  the  spirited,   earnest,   and  triumphant  devotion   of 
their  hymns  and  the  music  to  which  they  were  set  and  sung. 
They  had  fine  taste  and  warm  love  for  music  ;  and  knew  how 


92  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

to  employ  it  to  the  glory  of  Him  from  whom  all  music 
comes.  Nor,  with  their  musical  bent,  could  they  always 
abstain  from  tuneful  satire  even  when  charity  prompted 
them  to  "  an  apology  for  the  enemies  of  music."  So  Charles 
sings  : — 

MerTof  true  piety,  they  know  not  why 

Music  with  all  its  sacred  powers  decry, 

Music  itself  (not  its  abuse)  condemn, 

For  good  or  bad  is  just  the  same  to  them. 

But  let  them  know  they  quite  mistake  the  case, 

Defect  of  nature  for  excess  of  grace ; 

But  whilst  they  reprobate  the  harmonious  art,    ) 

Blamed  we  excuse,  and  candidly  assert  > 

The  fault  is  in  their  ear,  not  in  their  upright  heart.     ) 

The  brothers  availed  themselves  of  musical  composition 
from  any  and  every  source ;  so  that  the  people  might  be  suit- 
ably and  largely  supplied  with  "  Service  of  Song."  These 
supplies  sometimes  came  in  a  way  beautifully  illustrative  of 
the  harmony  between  the  Divine  Grace  which  they  preached 
and  the  Divine  Providence  which  guided  their  steps,  their 
voices,  and  their  pens.  On  March  29th,  1746,  Charles 
Wesley  jots  in  his  diary  :  "  I  passed  the  afternoon  at  Mrs. 
Rich's,  where  we  caught  a  physician  by  the  ear,  through  the 
help  of  Mr.  Lampe  and  some  of  our  sisters.  This  is  the 
true  use  of  music."  This  little  record  gives  an  insight  into 
the  way  in  which  early  Methodists  made  their  private  social 
gatherings  subservient,  at  once,  to  their  own  cultivation  in 
psalmody  and  the  spiritual  benefit  of  casual  visitors ;  while  it 
affords  a  clue  to  some  of  the  first  retired  springs  of  Methodist 
hymn-tunes.  Mr.  Rich  was  the  lessee  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre.  His  wife,  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  actress, 
had,  on  one  occasion,  found  her  way  into  West  Street  Chapel, 
where  Charles  Wesley  preached.  She  was  arrested  by  the 
Wrord,  gave  herself  to  the  pursuit  of  Divine  mercy,  and  found 
the  joys  of  salvation.  Now  came  the  conflict.  Her  husband 
required  her  usual  presence  on  the  stage ;  but,  though  enduring 
painful  persecution,  she  firmly  refused  to  appear,  unless  it 
were  to  bear  public  testimony  against  theatrical  amusements. 
She  conquered.     Her  husband  soon  left  her  a  rich  widow  j 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  93 

and  under  her  roof  her  spiritual  father  always  found  a 
welcome.  In  her  home  it  was  that  Charles  Wesley  met  with 
Frederick  Lampe,  a  German  musician,  who  was  engaged  by 
Mr.  Rich  as  a  composer  of  dramatic  music.  For  many  years 
he  had  been  a  Deist ;  but  on  reading  John  Wesley's  "Earnest 
Appeal  to  Men  of  Reason  and  Religion/'  he,  too,  became  a 
hearty  believer  in  Christ ;  and  consecrated  his  musical  talent 
by  setting  tunes  to  many  of  the  hymns  of  his  now  beloved 
friends,  the  Wesleys.  The  interesting  relations  between  the 
members  of  this  remarkable  group  are  seen  in  happy  light 
from  a  letter  of  Mrs.  Rich's  to  Charles  Wesley  on  Nov.  27th, 
1746,  during  her  husband's  life  : — "Dear  and  Rev.  Sir, — I  am 
infinitely  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  letter.  It  gave  me 
great  comfort,  and  at  a  time  I  had  much  need  of  it ;  for  I  had 
been  very  ill  both  in  body  and  mind.  Some  part  arose  from 
my  poor  partner,  who,  I  fear,  has  in  a  great  measure  stifled 
his  convictions  which  God  gave  him. 

"  As  to  myself,  God  has  been  pleased  to  show  me  so  much 
of  my  own  unworthiness  and  helplessness  that  the  light  has 
almost  broken  my  heart  5  and  I  might  truly  be  called  a  woman 
of  a  sorrowful  spirit. 

"  O  think  what  it  is  to  be  obliged  to  conceal  this  from  the 
eyes  of  those  who  know  nothing  of  these  things,  but  call  it 
all  madness  !  The  Lord  teach  them  better  :  at  whose  table 
I  have  been  greatly  strengthened,  and  through  His  grace  I 
still  hope  to  conquer  all  the  enemies  of  my  soul. 

"I  gave  a  copy  of  the  hymn  to  Mr.  Lampe,  who,  at  the 
reading,  shed  some  tears,  and  said  he  would  write  to  you  :  for 
he  loved  you  as  well  as  if  you  were  his  own  brother.  The 
Lord  increase  it  3  for  I  hope  it  is  a  good  sign. 

"  The  enclosed  is  a  copy  of  a  song  Mr.  Rich  has  sung  in 
a  new  scene,  added  to  one  of  his  old  entertainments,  in  the 
character  of  Harlequin  Preacher,  to  convince  the  town  he  is 
not  a  Methodist.  Oh,  pray  for  him,  that  he  may  be  a 
Christian  indeed,  and  then  he  will  be  no  more  concerned 
about  what  he  is  called,  and  for  me.  Your  unworthy  daughter 
in  Christ." 


9+ 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM, 


The  hymn,  which  brought  tears  from  the  musician's  eyes, 
and  elicited  his  expression  of  love  for  the  man  whose  hymns 
he  helped  the  Methodists  to  sing,  was  one  in  which  the 
happy  change  in  the  gifted  tune-maker  is  charmingly  sung, 
while  the  musician's  hopes  of  future  harmonies  swell  into 
longing  ecstacy : — 

Thou  God  of  harmony  and  love, 

Whose  name  transports  the  saints  above, 

And  lulls  the  ravish'd  spheres — 
On  Thee  in  feeble  strains  I  call, 
And  mix  my  humble  voice  with  all 

The  heavenly  choristers. 

If  well  I  know  the  tuneful  art 
To  captivate  a  human  heart, 

The  glory,  Lord,  be  Thine; 
A  servant  of  Thy  blessed  will, 
I  here  devote  my  utmost  skill 

To  sound  the  praise  Divine. 

With  TubaVs  wretched  sons  no  more 
I  prostitute  my  sacred  power 

To  please  the  fiends  beneath  ; 
Or  moderate  the  wanton  lay, 
Or  smooth  with  music's  hand  the  way 

To  everlasting  death. 

Suffice  for  this  the  season  past — 
I  come,  great  God,  to  learn  at  last 

The  lesson  of  Thy  grace ; 
Teach  me  the  new,  the  Gospel  song, 
And  let  my  hand,  my  heart,  my  tongue, 

Move  only  to  Thy  praise. 

Thine  own  musician,  Lord,  inspire, 
And  let  my  consecrated  lyre 

Repeat  the  Psalmist's  part ; 
His  Son,  and  Thine,  reveal  in  me, 
And  fill  with  sacred  melody 

The  fibres  of  my  heart. 


So  shall  I  charm  the  listening  throng, 
And  draw  the  living  stones  along 

By  Jesus'  tuneful  name  ; 
The  living  stones  shall  dance,  shall  rise, 
And  form  a  city  in  the  skies — 

The  New  Jerusalem. 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  95 

Oh !  might  I  with  Thy  saints  aspire — 
The  meanest  of  that  dazzling  choir — 

Who  chant  Thy  praise  above ; 
Mix'd  with  the  bright  musician-band, 
May  I  a  heavenly  harper  stand, 

And  sing  the  song  of  love. 

What  ecstacy  of  bliss  is  there, 
While  all  the  angelic  concert  share, 

And  drink  the  floating  joys  ! 
What  more  than  ecstacy  when  all, 
Struck  to  the  golden  pavement,  fall 

At  Jesus'  glorious  voice ! 

Jesus — the  heaven  of  heaven  He  is — 
The  soul  of  harmony  and  bliss  ; 

And  while  on  Him  we  gaze, 
And  while  His  glorious  voice  we  hear, 
Our  spirits  are  all  eye,  all  ear, 

And  silence  speaks  His  praise. 

Oh,  might  I  die  that  awe  to  prove, 
That  prostrate  awe  which  dares  not  move 

Before  the  great  Three-One  ; 
To  shout  by  turns  the  bursting  joy, 
And  all  eternity  employ 

In  songs  around  the  throne  ! 

Lampe's  tunes  became  popular.  In  a  letter  to  his  wife, 
Charles  Wesley  asks — "How  many  of  Lampe's  tunes  can 
you  play  ? "  and  in  an  epistle  from  Newcastle  to  his  friend 
Blackwell,  the  good  London  banker,  he  says — "  His  tunes 
are  universally  admired  here  among  the  musical  men,  and 
have  brought  me  into  high  favour  with  them."  Like  many 
a  pious  musician,  Lampe  must  have  found  it  difficult  to 
maintain  the  public  exercise  of  his  profession.  It  was  more 
easy  to  throw  his  heart  into  a  Methodist  hymn-tune  than  to 
entertain  the  musical  multitude.  In  October,  1748,  he  was 
in  Dublin,  and  his  friend  Wesley  says  : — "  I  met  at  Mr. 
Lunell's  an  old  Dutch  Quaker,  who  seemed  to  have  deep 
experience  of  the  things  of  God.  At  two  Mr.  Lampe  and 
his  wife  called,  and  were  overjoyed  to  see  me.  I  cannot  yet 
give  up  my  hope  that  they  are  designed  for  better  things 
than  feeding  swine — that  is,  entertaining  the  gay  world." 

What   curious   associations  are    sometimes  around  these 


96 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


brothers  in  song ! — an  old  Dutch  Quaker  and  a  converted 
German  musician  and  Methodist  tune-maker  !  The  tune- 
maker  realized  his  poetic  friend's  hope  at  last.  His  work  of 
"feeding  swine"  was  over — he  got  something  better  in  the 
music  way  more  to  his  taste,  and  that  for  ever  !  With  what 
a  swell  of  poetic  music  and  heavenward  affection  Wesley 
sings  at  his  upward  flight ! — 

'Tis  done  !     The  Sovereign  will  \s  obey'd, 
The  soul,  by  angel-guards  convey'd, 

Has  took  its  seat  on  high  ; 
The  brother  of  my  choice  is  gone 
To  music  sweeter  than  his  own, 

And  concerts  in  the  sky. 

His  spirit,  mounting  on  the  wing, 
Rejoiced  to  hear  the  convoy  sing 

While  harping  at  his  side ; 
With  ease  he  caught  their  heavenly  strain, 
And  smiled  and  sung  in  mortal  pain — 

He  sung,  and  smiled,  and  died. 

Enroll'd  with  that  harmonious  throng, 
He  hears  th'  unutterable  song, 

Th'  unutterable  Name ; 
He  sees  the  Master  of  the  choir, 
He  bows,  and  strikes  the  golden  lyre, 
0  And  hymns  the  glorious  Lamb. 

He  hymns  the  glorious  Lamb  alone, 
No  more  constrain'd  to  make  his  moan 

In  this  sad  wilderness  : 
To  toil  for  sublunary  pay, 
And  cast  his  sacred  strains  away, 

And  stoop  the  world  to  please. 

Redeem'd  from  earth,  the  tuneful  soul, 
While  everlasting  ages  roll, 

His  triumph  shall  prolong  ; 
His  noblest  faculties  exert, 
And  all  the  music  of  his  heart 

Shall  warble  on  his  tongue. 

Oh,  that  my  mournful  days  were  past ! 
Oh,  that  I  might  o'ertake  at  last 

My  happy  friend  above  ! 
With  him  the  Church  triumphant  join, 
And  celebrate  in  strains  divine 

The  majesty  of  love  ! 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  97 

Great  God  of  Love  !  prepare  my  heart, 
And  tune  it  now  to  bear  a  part 

In  heavenly  melody ; 
"  I'll  strive  to  sing  as  loud  as  they 
Who  sit  enthroned  in  brighter  dav," 

And  nearer  the  Most  High. 

Oh,  that  the  promised  time  were  come  ! 
Oh,  that  we  all  were  taken  home, 

Our  Master's  joy  to  share  ! 
Draw,  Lord,  the  living,  vocal  stones, 
Jesus,  recall  Thy  banish'd  ones, 

To  chant  Thy  praises  there. 

Our  number  and  our  bliss  complete, 
And  summon  all  the  choir  to  meet, 

Thy  glorious  throne  around  ; 
The  whole  musician-band  bring  in, 
And  give  the  signal  to  begin, 

And  let  the  trumpet  sound. 

The  "  two  brothers  in  song  "  began  their  issue  of 
"Hymns  and  Sacred  Poems"  in  1739,  and  continued,  at 
intervals,  to  supply  Christian  singers  for  half  a  century. 
Thirty-eight  publications  appeared,  one  after  the  other ;  now 
under  the  name  of  one  brother,  now  under  that  of  the  other; 
some  with  both  names,  and  others  nameless.  The  two 
hymnists  appear  to  have  agreed  that,  in  the  volumes  which 
bore  their  joint  names,  they  would  not  distinguish  theit 
hymns.  They  left  those  who  read  and  sang  them  to  detect, 
if  they  could,  the  severer  taste,  the  stronger  style,  and  the 
clearer  precision  of  John  ;  or  the  bolder  nights,  the  more 
glowing  fancy,  the  more  various  harmony,  and  the  more 
diffuse,  flowing  diction  of  the  younger  poet.  Most  of  the 
hymns  commonly  attributed  to  John  are  translations,  but 
his  stamp  may  be  found  upon  a  larger  number  of  the  original 
Methodist  songs  than  tradition  or  custom  has  allowed ;  and, 
perhaps,  had  his  distinctive  claims  been  more  fairly  put  in 
from  the  beginning,  the  Methodists  would  have  found  their 
indebtedness  to  him  for  his  part  in  their  doctrinal  standards 
and  ecclesiastical  discipline  far  more  nearly  balanced  than 
it  now  is  by  their  obligations  to  him  for  his  share  in  their 
service  of  psalmody.  At  all  events,  the  hymns  which  bear 
his  name  are  ever  living  things.     Much  of  their  life  is  owing 

H 


98  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

to  the  living  impressions  made  on  the  author's  soul  by  im- 
portant facts  in  his  personal  history.  It  was  so  with  both 
brothers.  One  part  of  their  education  at  home,  under  the 
regulated  and  prayerful  oversight  of  their  devoted  mother, 
evidently  influenced  their  devotional  thought  and  action 
through  life.  They  were  instructed,  as  soon  as  they  could 
speak,  to  give  utterance  to  any  feeling  of  devotion  that  might 
rise  in  their  minds,  in  short  and  simple  prayers.  The  Lord's 
Prayer  was  rightly  adopted  as  at  once  the  most  simple  and 
awe-inspiring  form  of  prayerful  words  which  human  lan- 
guage could  afford,  and  they  were  therefore  made  to  say  it 
at  rising  in  the  morning  and  on  retiring  at  night.  Both 
John  and  Charles  give  out  their  poetical  paraphrases  on 
that  prayer  with  a  loving  reverence  and  a  simple,  warm, 
intense  devoutness  which  indicate  the  still  fresh  influence  of 
impressions  in  childhood. 

Charles,  in  his  rhyme  and  rhythm,  is  beautifully  child- 
like ;  but  John's  hymn  excels  in  a  becoming  harmony  of 
grandeur,  condensed  power,  and  tender  warmth. 

Father  of  all,  whose  powerful  voice 

Call'd  forth  this  universal  frame — 
Whose  mercies  over  all  rejoice, 

Through  endless  ages  still  the  same ; 
Thou  by  Thy  word  upholdest  all, 

Thy  bounteous  love  to  all  is  show'd, 
Thou  hear'st  Thy  every  creature's  call, 

And  fillest  every  mouth  with  good. 

In  heaven  Thou  reign'st,  enthroned  in  light, 

Nature's  expanse  beneath  Thee  spread  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  sea  before  Thy  sight, 

And  hell's  deep  gloom,  are  open  laid. 
Wisdom,  and  might,  and  love  are  Thine — 

Prostrate  before  Thy  face  we  fall, 
Confess  Thine  attributes  Divine, 

And  hail  Thee  Sovereign  Lord  of  all. 

Thee,  Sovereign  Lord,  let  all  confess, 

That  moves  in  earth,  or  air,  or  sky, 
Revere  Thy  power,  Thy  goodness  bless, 

Tremble  before  Thy  piercing  eye. 
All  ye  who  owe  to  Him  your  birth, 

In  praise  your  every  hour  employ ; 
Jehovah  reigns  !  be  glad,  O  Earth, 

And  shout,  ye  Morning  Stars,  for  joy. 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  99 

Son  of  Thy  Sire's  eternal  love, 

Take  to  Thyself  Thy  mighty  power  ; 
Let  all  earth's  sons  Thy  mercy  prove, 

Let  all  Thy  bleeding  grace  adore. 
The  triumphs  of  Thy  love  display ; 

In  every  heart  reign  Thou  alone, 
Till  all  Thy  foes  confess  Thy  sway, 

And  glory  ends  what  grace  begun. 

Spirit  of  grace,  and  health,  and  power, 

Fountain  of  light  and  love  below, 
Abroad  Thine  healing  influence  shower, 

O'er  all  the  nations  let  it  flow. 
Inflame  our  hearts  with  perfect  love, 

In  us  the  work  of  faith  fulfil ; 
So  not  Heaven's  host  shall  swifter  move 

Than  we  on  earth  to  do  Thy  will. 

Father,  'tis  Thine  each  day  to  yield 

Thy  children's  wants  a  fresh  supply; 
Thou  cloth'st  the  lilies  of  the  field, 

And  hearest  the  young  ravens  cry  : 
On  Thee  we  cast  our  care ;  we  live 

Through  Thee,  who  know'st  our  every  need ; 
O  feed  us  with  Thy  grace,  and  give 

Our  souls  this  day  the  living  bread. 

Eternal,  spotless  Lamb  of  God, 

Before  the  world's  foundation  slain, 
Sprinkle  us  ever  with  Thy  blood ; 

O  cleanse,  and  keep  us  ever  clean. 
To  every  soul  (all  praise  to  Thee) 

Our  bowels  of  compassion  move, 
And  all  mankind  by  this  may  see 

God  is  in  us,  for  God  is  love. 

Giver  and  Lord  of  life,  whose  power 

And  guardian  care  for  all  are  free, 
To  Thee  in  fierce  temptation's  hour 

From  sin  and  Satan  let  us  flee. 
Thine,  Lord,  we  are,  and  ours  Thou  art, 

In  us  be  all  Thy  goodness  show'd ; 
Renew,  enlarge,  and  fill  our  heart 

With  peace,  and  joy,  and  heaven,  and  God. 

Blessing  and  honour,  praise  and  love, 

Co-equal,  co-eternal  Three, 
In  earth  below,  and  Heaven  above, 

By  all  Thy  works,  be  paid  to  Thee. 
Thrice  Holy,  Thine  the  kingdom  is, 

The  power  omnipotent  is  Thine ; 
And  when  created  nature  dies, 

Thy  never-ceasing  glories  shine. 


IOO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Nearly  half  a  century  ago,  on  a  Sunday  morning,  an  old 
Methodist  preacher  preached  in  a  village  on  the  heights 
above  Marazion,  in  Cornwall,  near  St.  Hilary  Downs. 
After  the  service,  he  was  invited  to  dine  with  a  member  of 
the  congregation.  The  table  was  somewhat  richly  laden. 
For  a  minute  or  two  he  seemed  to  hesitate  in  his  chair,  and 
at  length  said — 

"Isn't  this  the  place  where  John  Wesley  sat  in  the  saddle 
and  dined  on  blackberries  from  the  hedge  for  want  of  a  better 
inner  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  it  was  replied. 

"Then,"  said  he,  "forbid  that  I  should  indulge  in  this 
plenty,  or  eat  or  drink  in  this  place.  Where  Wesley  had 
not  a  morsel  of  bread  offered  him,  I  will  not  feast.  In 
honour  of  his  memory  I  will  go  out  on  the  downs  and  fast 
and  pray." 

The  stalwart  old  pilgrim  stalked  away,  singing — 

His  happiness,  in  part,  is  mine, 
Already  saved  from  self-design, 

From  every  creature-love  ! 
Bless'd  with  the  scorn  of  finite  good, 
My  soul  is  lighten'd  of  its  load, 

And  seeks  the  things  above. 

Some  would  think  that  this  came  too  near  to  the  ascetic  ; 
but  the  old  man  was  a  sturdy  representative  of  that  early 
class  whose  veneration  for  John  Wesley  and  whose  love  for 
his  work  and  their  own  were  master  feelings.  He  was  one 
of  the  few  who  could  appreciate  John  Wesley's  hymn  for 
"  The  Pilgrim,"  and  consistently  sing  it  throughout.  He 
was,  too,  in  built  and  appearance,  in  physical  constitution, 
mental  character,  and  intensity  of  devotion,  something  like  a 
sopy  of  the  man  who  recorded  Wesley's  pilgrim  experience 
m  St.  Hilary  Downs — John  Nelson  ;  and,  like  Wesley's 
vigorous  companion,  could  say  from  his  heart,  "By  the 
grace  of  God  I  love  every  man,  but  fear  no  man."  Nelson 
gives  us  his  vivid  recollections : — "When  I  hadbeenout  a  week, 
I  returned  to  St.  Ives.  .  .  .  All  that  time  Mr.  Wesley  and 


TWO     BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  IOI 

I  lay  on  the  floor,  he  had  my  great-coat  for  his  pillow,  and  I 
had  Burkett's  '  Notes  on  the  New  Testament  '  for  mine. 
After  being  here  near  three  weeks,  one  morning,  about  three 
o'clock,  Mr.  Wesley  turned  over,  and  finding  me  awake, 
clapped  me  on  the  side,  saying,  '  Brother  Nelson,  let  us  be 
of  good  cheer.  I  have  one  whole  side  yet,  for  the  skin  is  off 
but  one  side.'  We  usually  preached  on  the  commons,  going 
from  one  common  to  another,  and  it  was  but  seldom  any 
one  asked  us  to  eat  or  drink.  One  day  we  had  been  at  St. 
Hilary  Downs,  and  Mr.  Wesley  had  preached  from  Ezekiel's 
vision  of  dry  bones,  and  there  was  a  shaking  among  the 
people  as  he  preached.  As  we  returned,  Mr.  Wesley  stopped 
his  horse,  to  pick  the  blackberries,  saying,  '  Brother  Nelson, 
we  ought  to  be  thankful  that  there  are  plenty  of  blackberries  ; 
for  this  is  the  best  country  I  ever  saw  for  getting  a  stomach, 
but  the  worst  that  ever  I  saw  for  getting  food.'  '  Do  the  people 
think  we  can  live  by  preaching  ?  '  I  said ;  '  I  know  not  what 
they  may  think,  but  one  asked  me  to  eat  something  as  I 
came  to  St.  Just,  when  I  ate  heartily  of  barley-bread  and 
honey.'  He  said,  'You  are  well  off;  I  had  a  thought  of 
begging  a  crust  of  bread  of  the  woman  where  I  met  the 
people  at  Morva,  but  forgot  it  till  I  had  got  some  distance 
from  the  house.'  " 

In  the  light  of  this  record  of  a  week's  adventures  in  the 
pilgrim-poet's  life,  his  hymn  appears  in  all  its  distinctive  beauty 
and  singular  appropriateness.  Follow  the  man  from  Oxford 
to  Georgia ;  watch  him  amidst  the  disappointments  of  his 
love,  the  falling  away  of  weak  friends ;  his  perils  in  the 
distant  wilderness,  his  perils  in  the  deep,  his  perils  at  home 
amidst  hostile  mobs,  his  single-handed  defensive  battles 
against  all  classes  of  foes  to  truth,  his  continuous  rounds  of 
missionary  travel,  his  ceaseless  variety  of  company  and 
accommodation,  and  his  untiring  efforts  to  bless  the  world  ; 
see  him  "  in  stripes,  in  tumults,  in  labours,  in  watchings,  in 
fastings  ;  as  poor,  yet  making  many  rich  ;  as  having  nothing, 
and  yet  possessing  all  things  j"  look  at  him,  as  to  this 
world  fortuneless,  homeless,  with  his  back  on  things  that 


102 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


are  seen,  his  whole  soul  bent  on  eternal  life;  a  lone  man  still, 

an  apostolic  pilgrim,  lingering  on  the  open  Western  common 

to  feed  on  wild  berries,  and  thinking  of  begging  a  crust  from 

a  poor  woman  j  look  at  him,  and  then  listen,  as  he  pours 

forth  a  jubilant  song  from  his  heart — his  pilgrim's  song: — 

How  happy  is  the  pilgrim's  lot, 
How  free  from  every  anxious  thought, 

From  worldly  hope  and  fear  1 
Confined  to  neither  court  nor  cell, 
His  soul  disdains  on  earth  to  dwell — 

He  only  sojourns  here. 

His  happiness  in  part  is  mine, 
Already  saved  from  self-design, 

From  every  creature-love  ! 
Bless'd  with  the  scorn  of  finite  good, 
My  soul  is  lighten'd  of  its  load, 

And  seeks  the  things  above. 

The  things  eternal  I  pursue, 
A  happiness  beyond  the  view 

Of  those  that  basely  pant 
For  things  by  nature  felt  and  seen 
Their  honours,  wealth,  and  pleasures  mean, 

I  neither  have,  nor  want. 

I  have  no  sharer  of  my  heart, 
To  rob  my  Saviour  of  a  part, 

And  desecrate  the  whole  ; 
Only  betroth'd  to  Christ  am  I, 
And  wait  His  coming  from  the  sky 

To  wed  my  happy  soul. 

I  have  no  babes  to  hold  me  here, 
But  children  more  securely  dear 

For  mine  I  humbly  claim  ; 
Better  than  daughters,  or  than  sons, 
Temples  divine  of  living  stones 

Inscrib'd  with  Jesus'  name. 

No  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness — 

A  poor  wayfaring  man  ; 
I  lodge  awhile  in  tents  below, 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro, 

Till  I  my  Canaan  gain. 

Nothing  on  earth  I  call  my  own — 
A  stranger  to  the  world  unknown, 

I  all  their  goods  despise ; 
I  trample  on  their  whole  delight, 
And  seek  a  country  out  of  sight, 

A  country  in  the  skies. 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  IO3 

There  is  my  house  and  portion  fair, 
My  treasure  and  my  heart  is  there, 

And  my  abiding  home  : 
For  me  my  elder  brethren  stay, 
And  angels  beckon  me  away, 

And  Jesus  bids  me  come. 

I  come,  thy  servant,  Lord,  replies  ; 
I  come  to  meet  Thee  in  the  skies, 

And  claim  my  heavenly  rest : 
Now  let  the  pilgrim's  journey  end, 
Now,  O  my  Saviour,  Brother,  Friend, 

Receive  me  to  Thy  breast. 

A  Methodist  preacher,  travelling  in  the  United  States  of 
America,  found  his  way  into  Indiana.  He  and  his  family 
suffered  deep  poverty.  A  settler  who  loved  him,  being  a 
large  landholder,  presented  him  with  a  title-deed  of  very 
many  acres.  He  went  home  glad  at  heart,  in  freedom,  as  he 
thought,  from  his  difficulties.  Three  months  after  this  he 
came  to  his  friend,  the  kind-hearted  settler.  He  was 
welcomed j  but  he  soon  drew  out  the  parchment. 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  want  to  give  you  back  your  title- 
deed." 

"  What's  the  matter  ?  "  said  the  other ;  "  any  flaw  in  it  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Isn't  it  good  land?  " 

"  Good  as  any  in  the  State." 

"Do  you  think  I  repent  the  gift?  " 

"  I  have  not  the  slightest  reason  to  doubt  your  generosity." 

"Why  don't  you  keep  it,  then?  " 

"  Well,  sir,"  said  the  preacher,  "  you  know  I  am  very  fond 
of  singing,  and  there  is  one  hymn  in  my  book,  the  singing 
of  which  is  one  of  the  greatest  comforts  of  my  life.  I  have 
not  been  able  to  sing  it  with  my  whole  heart  since  I  have 
been  here.     A  part  of  it  runs  this  way  : — 

"  No  foot  of  land  do  I  possess, 
No  cottage  in  this  wilderness, 
A  poor,  wayfaring  man, 

I  lodge  a  while  in  tents  below, 
Or  gladly  wander  to  and  fro, 
Till  I  my  Canaan  gain, 


104  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

There  is  my  house  and  portion  fair, 
My  treasure  and  my  heart  is  there, 
And  my  abiding  home. 

"Take  your  title-deed,"  he  added ;  "I  would  rather  sing 
that  hymn  than  own  America." 

He  went  his  way,  and  sang  his  hymn,  fulfilling  his 
ministry,  and  confiding  in  Him  to  whose  service  he  had 
sacrificed  himself.  Nor  did  he  or  his  family  ever  lack  bread. 
He  is  gone  now  to  his  "  abiding  home." 

"When  you  have  a  trouble  that  haunts  you,"  said  one 
friend  to  another,  as  they  sat  in  the  dusk,  communing  about 
their  experience  of  life,  "  how  it  peers  at  you  around  every 
corner,  and  crosses  your  way  at  every  turn  !  Some  say  that, 
in  such  cases,  the  time  of  nightfall  is  the  worst,  according  to 
the  old  saying,  '  Cares  double  at  night ; '  and  it  is  true  that 
they  come  on,  thickening  the  darkness,  and  taking  multi- 
tudinous forms  to  the  lone,  sleepless  sufferer.  But  to  me, 
the  moment  of  waking  in  the  morning  has  often  proved  the 
worst;  it  used  to  seem  as  if  I  awoke  under  suffocating 
pressure,  which  made  every  nerve  twitch  and  every  pore 
weep.  Relief,  however — sweet  relief — came  to  me.  I  prayed 
at  night  that  I  might  have  a  peaceful  and  free  awakening, 
and  that  God  might  be  first  in  my  morning  thought  and 
feeling.  My  prayer  was  answered.  I  fell  off  to  sleep  in 
hope,  and  I  was  seemingly  called  in  the  morning  by  the 
voice  of  a  hymn  which  came  with  such  freshness  and  power 
as  if  it  were  breathed  into  my  soul  by  the  spirit  who  first 
inspired  the  author.    It  was  the  hymn  beginning  with — 

"  O  God,  my  God,  my  all  Thou  art ; 
Ere  shines  the  dawn  of  rising  day. 

w  My  mornings  from  that  time  have  been  too  bright  for 
intrusive  troubles.  That  is  now  my  elect  morning  hymn. 
It  is  John  Wesley's,  I  believe." 

Well,  he  was  the  translator.  The  original  was  in  the 
Spanish,  and  who  its  author  was  is  not  known.  But  though 
the  thoughts  were  at  first  those  of  some  saintly  Spaniard, 
the  English  rendering  is  such  as  to  show  that  John  Wesley 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  10^ 

had  a  poet's  appreciative  talent,  and  a  poet's  beauty  and 
power  of  expression  3  and  the  circumstances  under  which  it 
came  from  his  pen  might  prove  that  his  experience,  like  your 
own,  was  a  sympathetic  reflection  of  what  the  Spanish 
hymnist  was  feeling  when  he  wrote.  The  translation  was 
probably  made  while  Wesley  was  in  Georgia.  There  he,  too, 
was  haunted  by  troubles.  The  violation  of  his  conscientious 
Churchism,  the  vile  machinations  of  his  hostile  parishioners, 
the  vexatious  results  of  his  courtship,  and  the  seeming  failure 
of  his  loved  mission  work — all  combined  to  darken  his  evening 
retrospects  and  to  bedim  the  prospects  of  his  early  mornings. 
Under  such  circumstances,  with  a  heart  still  set  upon  the 
good,  and  seeking  refuge  in  God,  with  what  appropriate  and 
cheering  light  must  this  Spanish  version  of  the  63rd  Psalm 
have  touched  his  soul,  and  how  finely  and  with  what 
unction  he  has  uttered  his  own,  as  well  as  his  author's, 
devout  feeling  ! 

O  God,  my  God,  my  all  Thou  art ; 

Ere  shines  the  dawn  of  rising  day, 
Thy  sovereign  light  within  my  heart, 

Thy  all-enlivening  power  display. 

For  Thee  my  thirsty  soul  doth  pant, 

While  in  this  desert  land  I  live  ; 
And  hungry  as  I  am,  and  faint, 

Thy  love  alone  can  comfort  give. 

In  a  dry  land,  behold,  I  place 

My  whole  desire  on  Thee,  O  Lord  ; 
And  more  I  pay  to  gain  Thy  grace 

Than  all  earth's  treasures  can  afford. 

In  holiness  within  Thy  gates 

Of  old  oft  have  I  sought  for  Thee ; 
Again  my  longing  spirit  waits 

That  fulness  of  delight  to  see. 

More  dear  than  life  itself,  Thy  love 

My  heart  and  tongue  shall  still  employ 
And  to  declare  Thy  praise  will  prove 

My  peace,  my  glory,  and  my  joy. 

In  blessing  Thee  with  grateful  songs 

My  happy  life  shall  glide  away ; 
The  praise  that  to  Thy  name  belongs 

Hourly,  with  lifted  hands,  I'll  pay. 


T06  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Abundant  sweetness,  while  I  sing 

Thy  love,  my  ravish'd  soul  o'erflows  ; 
Secure  in  Thee,  my  God  and  King, 

Of  glory  that  no  period  knows. 

Thy  name,  O  Lord,  upon  my  bed 

Dwells  on  my  lips,  and  fires  my  thought; 

With  trembling  awe,  in  midnight  shade, 
I  muse  on  all  Thy  hands  have  wrought. 

In  all  I  do  I  feel  Thy  aid, 

Therefore  Thy  greatness  will  I  sing, 
O  God,  who  bid'st  my  heart  be  glad 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

My  soul  draws  nigh,  and  cleaves  to  Thee ; 

Then  let  or  earth  or  hell  assail, 
Thy  mighty  hand  shall  set  me  free: 

For  whom  Thou  sav'st,  he  ne'er  shall  fail. 

This  was  one  of  the  first  hymns  which  John  Wesley 
published  on  his  arrival  in  England,  and  is  among  the  first- 
fruits  of  his  genius,  brightened  and  hallowed  as  it  was  by 
sanctified  trial  and  growing  devotion  to  God's  service. 

When  fully  brought  under  the  holy  constraint  of  Christ's 
love,  and  unreservedly  consecrated  to  the  work  of  "spreading 
scriptural  holiness  over  the  land,"  John  Wesley  seems  to 
have  gone  his  rounds  through  the  most  western  province  of 
England  in  a  spirit  differing  from  that  of  some  of  his 
preachers — some  of  his  own  time,  and  some  who  have 
followed.  Where  he  felt  "  all  his  patience  put  to  the  proof 
again  and  again,"  others  have  found  it  pleasant  to  dwell ; 
and  where  he  was  disposed  to  "  leap "  under  a  sense  of 
freedom,  some  of  his  modern  representatives  have  grumbled 
as  if  amidst  the  hardships  of  banishment.  One  of  his  letters 
illustrates  this.  The  letter  was  written  in  Redruth,  a  re- 
markable centre  of  Wesley's  itinerant  operations  in  Corn- 
wall. About  halfway  down  the  steep,  queer  old  street,  at 
the  back  of  a  house,  just  below  the  broad  space  of  the 
market,  where  he  had  often  preached  to  the  multitude,  he 
sat  in  a  little  room  over  the  side-passage,  with  its  small 
window  commanding  the  covered  entrance  from  the  street, 
as  if  it  were  a  prophet's  watch-tower.  The  nest  was  about 
fifteen  feet  square,  with  a  kind  of  garret-like  ceiling,  and 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  TO7 

affording  just  room  for  a  bed,  table,  and  chair  by  the  small 
fire-place  in  the  corner  near  the  window.  It  was  on  Sunday, 
September  3 1,  1755.  On  the  evening  before,  he  had  preached 
in  the  street,  though  he  had  just  arrived  "  extremely  weary  5" 
"and  our  friends,"  as  he  said,  "were  so  glad  to  see  me 
that  none  once  thought  of  asking  me  to  eat  or  drink.  My 
weariness  vanished  when  I  began  to  speak."  On  the  Sunday 
morning  at  eight,  he  was  preaching  again  from  "  How  shall 
I  give  up  Ephraim  ?  "  "  Many  endeavoured,  but  in  vain,  to 
hide  their  tears."  From  the  street  service  he  walked  off  to 
church,  where  he  was  "  agreeably  surprised  to  hear  the 
prayers  read,  not  only  with  deliberation,  but  with  uncommon 
propriety."  At  one  o'clock  he  was  once  more  preaching  in 
the  street  to  double  as  many  as  were  there  in  the  morning, 
"and  all  were  still  as  night."  At  five  in  the  afternoon  there 
were  to  be  thousands  waiting  to  hear  him  in  Gwennap  • 
but  within  the  short  interval  he  retreated  to  his  snug  little 
lodging-hole,  and  wrote  thus  to  his  friend  Black  well,  in 
London : — 


Dear  Sir, — Experience  confirms  your  advice  both  ways.  In  my  last 
journey  into  the  North,  all  my  patience  was  put  to  the  proof  again  and 
again,  and  all  my  endeavour  to  please,  yet  without  success.  In  my  pre- 
sent journey,  I  leap,  as  broke  from  chains.  I  am  content  with  whatever 
entertainment  I  meet  with,  and  my  companions  are  always  in  good 
humour,  "  because  they  are  with  me."  This  must  be  the  spirit  of  all 
who  take  journeys  with  me.  If  a  dinner  ill-dressed,  a  hard  bed,  a  poor 
room,  a  shower  of  rain,  or  a  dirty  road  will  put  them  out  of  humour,  it 
lays  a  burden  upon  me,  greater  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  By  the 
grace  of  God  I  never  fret :  I  repine  at  nothing  ;  I  am  discontented  with 
nothing  ;  and,  to,  have  persons  at  my  ear,  fretting  and  murmuring  at 
everything,  is  like  tearing  the  flesh  off  my  bones.  I  see  God  sitting  upon 
His  throne,  and  ruling  all  things  well.  Although,  therefore,  I  can  bear 
this  also,  to  hear  His  government  of  the  world  continually  found  fault 
with  (for  in  blaming  the  things  which  He  alone  can  alter,  we,  in  effect, 
blame  Him),  yet  it  is  such  a  burden  to  me  as  I  cannot  bear  without  pain, 
and  I  bless  God  when  it  is  removed. 

The  doctrine  of  a  particular  providence  is  what  exceeding  few  persons 
understand  ;  at  least,  not  practically,  so  as  to  apply  it  to  every  circum- 
stance of  life.  This  I  want — to  see  God  acting  in  everything,  and  dis- 
posing^ all  for  His  own  glory  and  His  creatures'  good.  I  hope  it  is  your 
continual  prayer  that  you  may  see  Him,  and  love  Him,  and  glorify  Him 
with  all  you  are  and  all  you  have.     Peace  be  with  you  ail ! 


jo8 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


The  opening  sentences  of  this  epistle  contain  healthy- 
lessons  for  the  more  modern  Methodist  preachers ;  but  the 
latter  part  is  of  beautiful  interest  in  relation  to  one  of  John 
Wesley's  most  successfully  translated  hymns.  It  seems  to 
be  a  record  of  the  thought  and  feeling  which  the  work  of 
translating  that  hymn  had  permanently  fixed  in  his  soul.  We 
are  reminded  of  the  evident  connection  between  Donne's 
poetic  riches,  as  amassed  in  his  poems,  and  as  laid  out  with 
taste  in  his  sermons,  and  the  clearly  discoverable  alliance 
between  the  imagery  of  Milton  as  an  essayist  and  his 
wrought-up  grandeurs  and  beauties  as  a  poet.  Wesley's 
letter  is  the  prose  form  of  that  creed  as  to  a  ruling  Providence 
which  with  such  loving  skill  he  had  worked  into  tuneful 
English  out  of  Paul  Gerhardt's  well-known  hymn.  No 
translator  has  equalled  him  in  this  for  native  ease,  pure 
elegance,  weight,  inspiring  force,  and  unction.  His  own 
genius  was  never  put  forth  with  more  permanent  and  sacred 
effect  than  when  he  taught  us  to  sing — 


Commit  Thou  all  thy  griefs 
And  ways  into  His  hands ; 
To  His  sure  truth  and  tender  care, 
Who  earth  and  Heaven  commands. 

Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Whom  winds  and  seas  obey  ; 
He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet, 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 

Thou  on  the  Lord  rely, 
So  safe  shalt  thou  go  on ; 
Fix  on  His  work  thy  steadfast  eye, 
So  shall  thy  work  be  done. 

No  profit  canst  thou  gain 
By  self-consuming  care : 
To  Him  commend  thy  cause,  His  ear 
Attends  the  softest  prayer. 


Thy  everlasting  truth, 
Father,  Thy  ceaseless  love, 
Sees  all  Thy  children's  wants,  and  knows 
What  best  for  each  will  prove. 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  IOO 

And  whatsoe'er  Thou  will'st, 
Thou  dost,  O  King  of  Kings ; 
What  Thine  unerring  wisdom  chose 
Thy  power  to  being  brings. 

Thou  everywhere  hast  way, 
And  all  things  serve  Thy  might; 
Thy  every  act  pure  blessing  is, 
Thy  path  unsullied  light. 

When  Thou  arisest,  Lord, 
What  shall  Thy  work  withstand  ? 
When  all  Thy  children  want  Thou  giv'st, 
Who,  who  shall  stay  Thy  hand  ? 

Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears  ; 
Hope  and  be  undismay'd  ; 
God  hears  thy  sighs  and  counts  thy  tears, 
God  shall  lift  up  thy  head. 

Through  waves  and  clouds  and  storms, 
He  gently  clears  thy  way  ; 
Wait  thou  His  time,  so  shall  this  night 
Soon  end  in  joyous  day. 

Still  heavy  is  thy  heart  ? 
Still  sink  thy  spirits  down  ? 
Cast  off  the  weight,  let  fear  depart, 
And  every  care  be  gone. 

What  though  thou  rulest  not  ? 
Yet  Heaven  and  earth  and  hell 
Proclaim,  God  sitteth  on  the  throne, 
And  ruleth  all  things  well. 

Leave  to  His  sovereign  sway 
To  choose  and  to  command  ; 
So  shalt  thou,  wondering,  own  His  way, 
How  wise,  how  strong  His  hand. 

Far,  far  above  thy  thought 
His  counsel  shall  appear, 
When  fully  He  the  work  hath  wrought 
That  caused  thy  needless  fear. 

Thou  seest  our  weakness,  Lord, 
Our  hearts  are  known  to  Thee ; 
O,  lift  Thou  up  the  sinking  head, 
Confirm  the  feeble  knee  1 

Let  us  in  life,  in  death, 
Thy  steadfast  truth  declare, 
And  publish  with  our  latest  breath 
Thy  love  and  guardian  care. 


IIO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  gracious  influence  of  this  hymn  on  the  thought, 
feeling,  and  character  of  Christians  under  the  discipline  of 
life  might  find  unnumbered  illustrations.  One  or  two 
may  be  given  from  the  recollections  of  an  old  observer.  A 
venerable  minister  once  said  to  him: — 

"  My  first  year  after  marriage  was  spent  in  the  South  of 
England,  and  then  I  was  called  to  take  a  pastoral  charge  in 
South  Wales.  My  income  had  been  small,  and  my  expenses 
somewhat  large,  so  that  when  the  time  of  starting  came,  I 
had  not  money  enough  to  pay  my  way  to  our  journey's  end. 
We  had  done  our  best  with  the  means  we  had,  and  were 
happily  one  in  our  repose  on  God's  fatherly  goodness.  I 
believed  that  He  would  supply  our  need  day  by  day  as  He 
had  always  done,  and  in  that  full  trust  we  went  off  on  the 
top  of  the  coach.  Those  were  old  coaching  days.  We  had 
got  abouc  halfway  towards  our  destination,  and  when  I  had 
given  the  coachman  and  guard  their  fees,  I  had  but  twenty- 
pence  left  in  my  pocket.  We  were  to  go  into  the  inn  while 
the  horses  were  changed,  and  had  to  be  booked  for  the  rest 
of  the  journey.  Where  the  amount  of  our  fare  was  to  come 
from,  I  did  not  know ;  but  stilly  I  rested  on  the  promise  of 
Divine  help.  As  I  got  off  the  coach,  that  verse  came  freshly 
to  my  mind — 

"  No  profit  canst  thou  gain 
By  self-consuming  care ; 
To  Him  commend  Thy  cause,  His  ear 
Attends  the  softest  prayer. 

And  I  lifted  up  my  heart  to  God  in  the  language  of  the  next 
verse — 

"  Thy  everlasting  truth, 
Father,  Thy  ceaseless  love, 
Sees  all  Thy  children's  wants,  and  knows 
What  best  for  each  will  prove. 

"  As  we  walked  through  the  lobby,  I  saw  a  paper  on  the 
floor,  picked  it  up,  and  opened  it.  It  was  a  ten-pound  note. 
'The  help  has  come  in  time/  said  I  to  myself.  But  putting 
the  note  in  my  pocket,  I  called  the  landlord,  told  him  that  I 


TWO    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.  Ill 

had  found  a  note  which  I  supposed  somebody  in  the  house 
had  lost.  If  he  could  tell  me  the  amount  and  the  number 
of  the  note,  I  would  let  the  owner  have  it.  There  was  at 
once  a  hue  and  cry  through  the  house,  '  Who  had  lost  a 
bank-note  ? '  Nobody  claimed  it ;  nobody  could  describe 
it.  The  horn  blew  ;  the  coach  was  to  start j  we  could  not 
stay;  and  hurriedly  giving  the  landlord  my  address  in  Wales, 
and  assuring  him  that  I  would  remit  the  amount  lost  as 
soon  as  the  owner  of  the  note  was  identified,  we  took  our 
seats,  and,  by-and-by,  safely  arrived  at  our  new  residence. 
No  news  of  the  person  who  had  lost  the  note  ever  came,  nor 
has  any  claim  ever  been  made  on  me  from  that  day  to  this. 
How  ever  some  people  may  account  for  the  fact,  there  it  is ; 
one  of  many  instances  in  my  life  in  which  God  has  shown 
Himself  near  to  help  me  in  the  time  of  need." 

Another  dear  old  friend  used  to  tell  a  story  of  his  mining 
days.  He  was  a  purser  at  a  mine  in  the  West  of  England. 
The  road  from  the  mine  towards  his  home  was  dangerous  in 
the  dark,  leading  in  and  out  among  old  mine  pits  and  shafts. 
"  It  was  almost  dark  one  evening,"  said  he,  "  before  I  left 
the  counting-room,  but  my  heart  was  always  ready  to  sing — 

"  Who  points  the  clouds  their  course, 
Whom  winds  and  seas  obey  ; 
He  shall  direct  thy  wandering  feet, 
He  shall  prepare  thy  way. 

"  I  took  a  captain's  candle  to  light  me  on  my  way,  but 
somehow  or  other  I  got  wrong  in  starting,  and  wandered  on 
till  I  became  thoroughly  confused.  Suddenly  I  felt  a  slight 
twitch  of  my  fingers,  and  the  candle  I  was  holding  was 
taken  from  me  as  by  an  unseen  hand.  It  did  not  fall, 
neither  was  it  put  out  immediately,  but  was  borne  on  in 
front  of  me,  and  then  slightly  inclined  to  the  left,  and  that 
sufficiently  to  discover  to  me  a  precipice.  When  I  saw  it,  I 
knew  my  whereabouts,  which  had  I  not  known,  the  next 
moment  I  should  have  been  hurled  into  eternity.  Imme- 
diately after  the  candle  fell,  and  was  extinguished.     I  stood 


Ill 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


still,  and  praised  God  for  His  great  deliverance  ;  then 
scrambling  on  my  hands  and  knees,  and  feeling  my  way 
as  I  went  from  amidst  the  shafts  and  pits  by  which  I  was 
surrounded,  I  escaped  to  the  turnpike  road,  and  went  home 
with  a  thankful  heart.  The  next  day  I  repaired  to  the 
memorable  spot  again,  and  thankfully  surveyed  the  precipice 
of  ruin  where  I  stood  the  night  before,  but  from  which  the 
kind  overruling  providence  of  God  had  delivered  me. 


"  Let  us  in  life,  in  death, 
Thy  steadfast  truth  declare, 
And  publish  with  our  latest  breath 
Thy  love  and  guardian  care." 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.      I  13 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS. 

Thanks  be  to  God  !  His  grace  has  shown 

How  sinful  man  on  earth 
May  join  the  songs  which  round  His  throne 

Give  endless  praises  birth. 
He  gave  His  Son  for  man  to  die] 
He  sent  His  Spirit  from  on  high 

To  consummate  the  scheme  : 
O  be  that  consummation  blest! 
And  let  Redemption  be  confest 

A   poet's  noblest  theme. 

'HE  sanctified  genius  of  Christianity  has  made  the 
hills  and  valleys  of  the  English-speaking  world 
vocal  with  prayer  and  praise  to  "  Jesus  and  Him 
crucified." 

"  It  was  nearly  sunset,"  says  a  Western  travelling 
preacher,  "  and  a  mellow  light  was  upon  the  valley 
up  which  I  was  footing  it  towards  a  village  chapel.  The 
light  seemed  to  hallow  the  balmy  quietness  around  me.  I 
came  at  length  within  sight  of  a  group  of  tin-washers.  They 
were  mostly  young  women  in  their  picturesque  sun-bonnets 
and  working  dress.  They  were  gracefully  using  their  long- 
handled  instruments  in  regulating  the  action  of  the  water  on 
the  pounded  tin  ore,  as  it  was  carried  over  a  succession  of 
sloping  boards,  so  as  to  allow  the  cleanly-washed  tin  to  form 
a  deposit  beneath.  They  Bwere  singing  in  concert  as  they 
worked,  and  on  passing  the  nearest  point  of  the  road  to  them, 
I  caught  some  of  the  words  of  their  evening  song.  The 
words  came  swelling  up  the  valley — 

"  Wash  me,  and  make  me  thus  Thine  own, 
Wash  me,  and  mine  Thou  art ; 

I 


114  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  It  filled  me  with  sacred  feeling  as  I  passed,  and  the  soften- 
ing music  followed.  It  was  an  agreeable  preparation  for 
evening  worship.  The  time  of  service  arrived,  and  the  same 
singers  came  with  their  parents,  friends,  and  neighbours,  all 
decently  dressed  for  God's  house,  and  true  to  the  hour  for 
prayer.  I  chose  the  same  favourite  hymn.  New  inspiration 
seemed  to  come  upon  them,  and  they  made  the  sanctuary 
ring  with  their  spirited,  glowing  harmony,  as  they  sang: — 

11  Jesu,  Thou  art  my  Righteousness, 
For  all  my  sins  were  Thine ; 
Thy  death  hath  bought  of  God  my  peace, 
Thy  life  hath  made  Him  mine. 

Spotless  and  just  in  Thee  I  am  ; 

I  feel  my  sins  forgiven  ; 
I  taste  salvation  in  Thy  name, 

And  ante-date  my  heaven. 

For  ever  here  my  rest  shall  be, 

Close  to  Thy  bleeding  side  ; 
This  all  my  hope,  and  all  my  plea, 

For  me  the  Saviour  died. 

My  dying  Saviour,  and  my  God, 

Fountain  for  guilt  and  sin, 
Sprinkle  me  ever  with  Thy  blood, 

And  cleanse  and  keep  me  clean. 

Wash  me,  and  make  me  thus  Thine  own 

Wash  me,  and  mine  Thou  art ; 
Wash  me,  but  not  my  feet  alone — 

My  hands,  my  head,  my  heart. 

Th'  atonement  of  Thy  blood  apply, 

Till  faith  to  sight  improve, 
Till  hope  shall  in  fruition  die, 

And  all  my  soul  be  love. 

"  It  was  indeed  a  joy  to  hear  this  from  the  lips  of  so  many 
happy  young  people  who  had  known  the  washing  of  re- 
generation, and  renewing  of  the  Holy  Ghost ;  and  the  joy 
became  deeper  as  their  faces  brightened  or  their  eyes  sparkled 
through  their  tears  as  they  listened  to  their  preacher's  address 
on  the  words  of  Jesus.  '  If  I  wash  thee  not,  thou  hast  no 
part  with  me.'  Every  feature  of  the  eager,  upturned  coun- 
tenances seemed  to  respond,  '  Lord,  not  my  feet  only,  but 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     II5 

also  my  hands  and  my  head.'  Nor  will  that  parting  music 
ever  be  forgotten  j  for  as  they  went  off  in  groups  from  the 
service,  I  could  hear  them  singing  along  the  hill-side  lane — 

"  Wash  me,  and  make  me  thus  Thine  own  ; 
Wash  me,  and  mine  Thou  art ; 
Wash  me,  but  not  my  feet  alone, 
My  hands,  my  head,  my  heart." 

Methodism  owes  it  to  Charles  Wesley  that  its  distinctive 
teachings  are  so  embodied  in  the  psalmody  which  the  masses 
of  its  generations  have  formed  the  habit  of  singing]  that  it 
has  been  preserved  in  doctrinal  integrity  while  some  other 
communities  have  been  u  tossed  to  and  fro,  and  carried  about 
with  every  wind  of  doctrine."  The  doctrine,  for  instance,  of 
the  Holy  Spirit's  "witness  "  with  the  spirit  of  believers,  that 
they  "are  the  children  of  God,"  is  so  wrought  into  the  very 
life  of  the  Methodists'  hymnology  that  their"  service  of  song  " 
has  been  an  agreeable  preservative  from  indistinct  notions, 
mistiness  of  experience,  and  doubtful  gloom. 

"  I  used  to  go  mourning  for  my  sins  all  the  day,"  said  a 
tinner  once,  at  a  Methodist  lovefeast,  "  and  sometimes  nearly 
all  night,  too.     Now  and  then,  it  seemed  as  if  I  had 

"  The  tears  that  tell  the  sin  forgiven, 
The  sighs  that  waft  the  soul  to  Heaven  ; 

And  then  I  should  again  be  in  darkness  and  uncertainty.  I 
was  going  over  the  down  one  day  when  the  furze-blossom 
was  ripening  to  seed,  and  I  said  within  myself,  *  If  the  Lord 
would  make  a  furze  seed-pod  burst  this  moment,  I  would 
believe  the  sign  that  my  sins  were  forgiven.'  A  seed-pod 
did  burst  with  a  crack,  but  I  could  not  believe.  '  Lord,  try 
me  again,'  said  I;  and  again  a  seed  opened ;  but  still  I  had 
no  faith.  I  went  home,  determined  that  I  would  pray  for 
the  salvation  of  a  friend,  and  if  it  came  to  pass  within  a 
fixed  time,  I  thought  I  should  be  able  to  believe  a  sign  like 
that.  Within  the  time,  the  friend  I  prayed  for  was  led  to 
give  his  heart  to  Christ ;  but  I  was  darker  than  ever.  All  at 
once  the  thought  came,  '  What  am  I  doing  ?  I  am  like  the 
wicked  Jews,  I   am  looking  for   a  sign  to  prove  what  the 


Il6  THE    POETS     OF    METHODISM. 

Holy  Ghost  only  can  make  known.'  '  Lord,'  said  I,  '  Thou 
wilt  not  give  Thy  glory  to  another.  It  is  Thine  to  tell  me 
of  my  acceptance.' 

"  Spirit  of  faith,  come  down, 

Reveal  the  things  of  God  ; 
And  make  to  me  the  Godhead  known, 

And  witness  with  the  blood  : 
'Tis  Thine  the  blood  to  apply 

And  give  me  eyes  to  see, 
Who  did  for  every  sinner  die 

Hath  surely  died  for  me. 

"  I  will  '  cast  my  soul  on  Jesus/  and  wait.  I  did  not  wait 
long.  The  Blessed  Spirit  came,  and  oh,  how  clear  it  was 
then  !  Then  I  could  sing,  and  hear  the  sweet  meaning  of 
the  hymn  : — 

"  How  shall  a  slave  released 

From  his  oppressive  chain 
Distinguish  ease  and  rest 

From  weariness  and  pain  ? 
Can  he  his  burden  borne  away 

Infallibly  perceive? 
Or  I  before  the  Judgment  Day, 

My  pardon'd  sin  believe  ? 

Redeem'd  from  all  his  woes, 

Out  of  his  dungeon  freed, 
Ask  how  the  prisoner  knows 

That  he  is  free  indeed ! 
How  can  he  tell  the  gloom  of  night 

From  the  meridian  blaze? 
Or  I  discern  the  glorious  light 

That  streams  from  Jesus'  face  ? 

The  gasping  patient  lies 

In  agony  of  pain  ! 
But  see  him  light  arise, 

Restored  to  health  again, 
And  doth  he  certainly  receive 

The  knowledge  of  his  cure  ? 
And  am  I  conscious  that  I  live  ? 

And  is  my  pardon  sure  ? 

A  wretch  for  years  consign'd 

To  hopeless  misery, 
The  happy  change  must  find, 

From  all  his  pain  set  free ; 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     J  J  / 

And  must  not  I  the  difference  know 

Of  joy  and  anxious  grief, 
Of  grace  and  sin,  of  weal  and  woe, 

Of  faith  and  unbelief  ? 

Yes,  Lord,  I  now  perceive, 

And  bless  Thee  for  the  grace 
Through  which,  redeem'd,  I  live 

To  see  Thy  smiling  face. 
Alive  I  am  who  once  was  dead, 

And  freely  justified; 
I  know  Thy  blood  for  me  was  shed, 

I  feel  it  now  applied. 

By  sin  no  longer  bound, 

The  pris'ner  is  set  free, 
The  lost  again  is  found 

In  Paradise  in  Thee  : 
In  darkness,  chains,  and  death  I  was, 

But,  lo  !  to  life  restored, 
Into  Thy  wondrous  light  I  pass, 

The  freeman  of  the  Lord. 

In  comfort,  power,  and  peace, 

Thy  favour,  Lord,  I  prove, 
In  faith,  and  joy's  increase, 

And  self-abasing  love ; 
Thou  dost  my  pardon'd  sin  reveal, 

My  life,  and  heart  renew  ; 
The  pledge,  the  witness,  and  the  seal 

Confirm  the  record  true. 

The  Spirit  of  my  God 

Hath  certified  Him  mine, 
And  all  the  tokens  show'd 

Infallible,  Divine ; 
Hereby  the  pardon'd  sinner  knows 

His  sins  on  earth  forgiven, 
And  thus  my  Saviour  shows 

My  name  inscribed  in  Heaven." 

Nothing  but  clearly  denned  spiritual  life,  and  certain  joy- 
fulness  in  God,  could  be  expected  in  the  experience  of 
people  whom  Charles  Wesley  taught  to  sing  of  salvation. 
Some  of  his  hymns  on  a  present  sense  of  pardon  and  adop- 
tion are  most  jubilant,  and  have  furnished  means  of  expres- 
sion to  happy  souls  without  number.  Under  one  date, 
in  the  narrative  of  the  ill-fated  Patagonian  Mission,  it  is 
recorded  :  "  Found  Mr.  Williams  ana  Badcock  to-day  very 


n8 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


ill,  the  latter  beyond  the  hope  of  recovery.  He  is  most 
patient,  and  leaning  upon  his  Saviour."  John  Badcock  was 
a  pious  Cornish  fisherman — a  Methodist.  He  had  devoted 
himself  to  the  mission  as  a  boatman,  and  now  he  was  lying 
in  the  "  Speedwell's  cabin,  in  Terra  del  Fuego,  starving  to 
death,  and  awaiting  his  end."  At  eleven  o'clock  that  same 
evening  he  died.  As  the  end  approached,  he  requested  Mr. 
Williams  to  join  him  in  singing  a  hymn,  and  having  repeated 
it,  he  then  sang  the  whole  with  a  loud  voice  : — 


Arise,  my  soul,  arise, 

Skake  offthv  guilty  fears  ; 
The  bleeding  sacrifice 
In  my  behalf  appears  ; 
Before  the  throne  my  Surety  stands, 
My  name  is  written  on  His  hands. 

He  ever  lives  above 

For  me  to  intercede, 
His  all-redeeming  love, 

His  precious  blood  to  plead  ; 
His  blood  atoned  for  all  our  race, 
And  sprinkles  now  the  throne  of  grace. 

Five  bleeding  wounds  He  bears, 

Received  on  Calvary ; 
They  pour  effectual  prayers, 
They  strongly  speak  for  me. 
Forgive  him,  O  forgive  !  they  cry — 
Nor  let  that  ransom'd  sinner  die  ! 


The  Father  hears  Him  pray, 

His  dear  Anointed  One ; 
He  cannot  turn  away, 

The  presence  of  His  Son  ; 
His  Spirit  answers  to  the  blood, 
And  tells  me  I  am  born  of  God. 

My  God  is  reconcil'd, 

His  pardoning  voice  I  hear, 
He  owns  me  for  His  child, 
I  can  no  longer  fear ; 
With  confidence  I  now  draw  nigh, 
And  Father,  Abba,  Father,  cry! 


His  voice  fell,  and  in  a  few  minutes  after  his  spirit  joined 
the  choir  above. 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     I  10 

Charles  Wesley  was  as  warm  and  correct  in  most  of  his 
songs  about  entire  holiness  as  he  was  about  the  evidence  of 
adoption,  though  he  was  somewhat  tinged  now  and  then  by 
the  morbid  mysticism  to  which  he  had  shown  an  early 
proneness. 

An  aged  Congregational  minister  and  his  wife,  who 
resided  in  a  retired  North  Devon  village,  used  occasionally 
to  visit  a  Methodist  home  in  which  the  services  of  the 
Society  were  held.  While  they  were  sitting  in  the  parlour 
one  day,  the  old  man  took  up  a  book  from  the  table,  and, 
looking  at  the  title,  threw  it  down,  saying,  "  There  is  no 
such  thing  in  this  world."  It  was  John  Wesley's  "  Plain 
Account  of  Christian  Perfection."  The  old  lady  took  up 
the  rejected  volume,  and  opening  about  the  middle  (as  those 
who  are  not  habitual  readers  are  apt  to  do),  her  eye  fell 
upon  a  passage  which  arrested  her.  u  Why,"  said  she,  "  is 
this  perfection  ?  Why,  John  ?  "  she  cried  to  her  husband, 
u  is  this  perfection  ?  Listen  to  this.  I  have  enjoyed  this 
for  many  years.  Is  this  perfection,  as  the  Methodists  call 
it  ?  Then  I  have  got  it  !  It  is  possible  in  this  world,  John. 
It  is  to  be  enjoyed  even  here.  This  blessing  God  gives  me 
from  day  to  day.  Listen  to  this  "  \  and  she  read  from  one 
of  Wesley's  pages.  Her  husband  was  silent,  until  the 
Methodist  mother  of  the  house  opened  an  old  hymn-book, 
and  asked  whether  they  could  not  both  join  her  in  singing  a 
hymn  of  Charles  Wesley's,  which  expressed  the  same  spiri- 
tual experience  as  John  Wesley  described,  in  a  manner  more 
tuneful,  but  not  with  less  precision.  •*  Can't  you  sing  this 
from  your  hearts  ?  "  said  she,  repeating  verse  after  verse. 

"  Yes,"  they  said. 

"Well,  then,  we  will  sing  together."  And  the  good 
Methodist  woman,  and  the  old  veteran  theologue,  and  his 
venerable,  warm-hearted  wife,  sang  : — 

O  for  a  heart  to  praise  my  God, 

A  heart  from  sin  set  free, 
A  heart  that  always  feels  Thy  blood, 

So  freely  spilt  for  mc  ! 


120  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

A  heart  resign'd,  submissive,  meek, 

My  dear  Redeemer's  throne, 
Where  only  Christ  is  heard  to  speak, 

Where  Jesus  reigns  alone. 

A  humble,  lowly,  contrite  heart, 

Believing,  true,  and  clean, 
Which  neither  life  nor  death  can  part 

From  Him  that  dwells  within. 

A  heart  in  every  thought  renew'd, 

And  full  of  love  Divine, 
Perfect,  and  right,  and  pure,  and  good, 

A  copy,  Lord,  of  Thine. 

Thy  tender  heart  is  still  the  same, 

And  melts  at  human  woe ; 
Jesus,  for  Thee  distrest  I  am, 

I  want  Thy  love  to  know. 

My  heart,  Thou  know'st,  can  never  rest 

Till  Thou  create  my  peace, 
Till  of  my  Eden  repossest, 

From  self  and  sin  I  cease. 

Fruit  of  Thy  gracious  lips,  on  me 

Bestow  that  peace  unknown, 
The  hidden  manna,  and  the  tree 

Of  life,  and  the  white  stone. 

Thy  nature,  dearest  Lord,  impart, 

Come  quickly  from  above, 
Write  Thy  new  name  upon  my  heart, 

Thy  new,  best  name  of  Love. 

Among  the  multitude  of  Charles  "Wesley's  hymns,  the 
one  hundred  and  sixty-six  spiritual  songs  which  he  issued 
under  the  title  of  "  Hymns  for  a  Family"  have  a  peculiar 
charm.  A  venerable  man,  remarkable  for  his  brilliant  wit 
and  cultured  taste,  and  to  whom  Charles  Wesley  was  known, 
once  said  of  these  hymns  : — "  Such  accumulated  strength  and 
beauty  of  expression,  in  presenting  the  daily  wants,  pains, 
trials,  and  embarrassments  of  a  family  to  the  God  of  the 
families  of  the  whole  earth,  surely  never  before  was  pre- 
sented to  the  suffering  children  of  men."  The  poet's  expe- 
rience of  family  life,  and  his  inspiration  as  a  family  hymnist, 
may  be  said  to  have  begun  on  his  own  wedding-day.  He 
remained  single  nearly  forty  years,  that  he  might  give  him- 
self to  evangelical  work  ;  but  then  there  arose  the  thought, 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     121 

"  How  know  I  whether  it  is  best  for  me  to  marry  or  not  ? 
Certainly,  better  now  than  later  j  and,  if  not  now,  what 
security  have  I  that  it  shall  not  be  then  ?  It  should  be  now 
or  not  at  all."  While  this  thought  was  working,  he  found 
his  way  to  a  small  village  in  Wales,  where  he  was  welcomed 
by  a  respectable  and  pious  family.  There  was  a  lovable 
daughter  who  arrested  his  heart.  He  consulted  his  brother 
and  his  friend  Perronet,  pondered  much,  waited,  expressed 
himself  to  God  in  hymns,  and,  at  last,  proposed,  was 
accepted,  and  ere  long  came  the  wedding-day.  What  a 
wedding-day  was  that!  "Saturday,  April  8,  i/49,"  says 
the  bridegroom — 


"  Sweet  day  !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky. 


"  Not  a  cloud  was  to  be  seen  from  morning  till  night.  I 
rose  at  four j  spent  three  hours  and  a  half  in  prayer,  or  sing- 
ing, with  my  brother,  with  Sally,  with  Beck.  At  eight  I  led 
My  Sally  to  church.  Her  father,  sisters,  Lady  Rudd, 
Grace  Bowen,  Betty  Williams,  and,  I  think,  Billy  Tucker 
and  Mr.  James,  were  all  the  persons  present.  At  the  church 
door,  I  thought  of  the  prophecy  of  a  jealous  friend,  '  that  if 
we  were  even  at  the  church  door  to  be  married,  she  was 
sure,  by  revelation,  that  we  could  get  no  farther.'  We  both 
smiled  at  the  remembrance.  We  got  farther.  Mr.  Gwynne 
gave  her  to  me  (under  God) ;  my  brother  joined  our  hands. 
It  was  a  most  solemn  season  of  love  !  Never  had  I  more  of 
the  Divine  presence  at  the  sacrament.  My  brother  gave  out 
the  following  hymn — 


"  Come,  Thou  everlasting  Lord, 
By  our  trembling  hearts  adored  ; 
Come,  Thou  heaven-descended  Guest, 
Bidden  to  our  marriage  feast ; 
Jesus,  in  the  midst  appear, 
Present  with  Thy  followers  here, 
Grant  us  the  peculiar  grace, 
Show  us  all  Thy  smiling  face. 


122 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


Now  the  veil  of  sin  withdraw, 
Fill  our  souls  with  sacred  awe, 
Awe  that  dares  not  speak  or  move, 
Deepest  awe  of  humble  love; 
Love  that  doth  its  Lord  descry, 
Ever  intimately  nigh, 
Sees  the  Invisible  in  Thee, 
Fulness  of  the  Deity. 

Let  on  us  Thy  Spirit  rest, 
Enter  each  devoted  breast, 
Still  with  Thy  disciples  sit, 
Still  Thy  works  of  grace  repeat : 
Now  the  former  wonder  show, 
Manifest  Thy  power  below, 
Earthly  souls  exalt,  refine, 
Turn  the  water  into  wine. 

Stop  the  hurrying  spirit's  haste, 
Change  the  soul's  ignoble  taste ; 
Nature  into  grace  improve, 
Earthly  into  heavenly  love  : 
Raise  our  hearts  to  things  on  high, 
To  our  Bridegroom  in  the  sky, 
Heaven  our  hope  and  highest  aim, 
Mystic  marriage  of  the  Lamb. 

O  might  each  obtain  a  share 
Of  the  pure  enjoyments  there  ! 
Now,  in  rapturous  surprise, 
Drink  the  wine  of  Paradise ; 
Cry,  amidst  the  rich  repast, 
Thou  hast  given  the  best  at  last, 
Wine  that  cheers  the  Host  above, 
The  best  wine  of  perfect  love. 

"  He  then  prayed  over  us  in  strong  faith.  We  walked  back 
to  the  house,  and  joined  again  in  prayer.  Prayer  and  thanks- 
giving was  our  whole  employment.  We  were  cheerful 
without  mirth,  serious  without  sadness.  .  .  .  My  brother 
seemed  the  happiest  person  among  us." 

Family  life  begun  in  this  style  promised  to  be  a  life  of 
family  prayer  and  praise  amidst  all  the  vicissitudes  to  which 
it  would  necessarily  be  subject.  And  so  it  was.  About 
four  months  after  marriage  we  have  an  insight  into  the 
household  order  of  the  Methodist  hymnist.  On  a  September 
morning  there  was  a  record  made.  "We  had  family  prayer 
at  eight.     I  began  the  New  Testament.     I  passed  the  hour 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     I23 

of  retirement  in  the  garden,  and  was  melted  into  tears  by 
the  Divine  goodness."  On  the  next  day  but  one:  "1  rose 
with  my  partner  at  four,"  says  the  husband.  "  Both  under 
the  Word,  and  among  the  select  band,  we  were  constrained 
to  cry  after  Jesus  with  mighty  prayers  and  tears.  We  sang 
this  hymn  in  my  family — 

11  God  of  faithful  Abraham,  hear 

His  feeble  son  and  Thine, 
In  Thy  glorious  power  appear, 

And  bless  my  just  design. 
Lo  !  I  come  to  serve  Thy  will, 

All  Thy  blessed  will  to  prove  ; 
Fired  with  patriarchal  zeal, 

And  pure  primeval  love. 

Me  and  mine  I  fain  would  give 

A  sacrifice  to  Thee, 
By  the  ancient  model  live, 

The  true  simplicity ; 
Walk  as  in  my  Maker's  sight, 

Free  from  worldly  guile  and  care, 
Praise  my  innocent  delight, 

And  all  my  business  prayer. 

Whom  to  me  Thy  goodness  lends 

Till  life's  last  gasp  is  o'er, 
Servants,  relatives,  and  friends, 

I  promise  to  restore  ; 
All  shall  on  Thy  side  appear, 

All  shall  in  Thy  service  join, 
Principled  with  godly  fear, 

And  worshippers  Divine. 

Them,  as  much  as  lies  in  me, 

I  will  through  grace  persuade; 
Seize  and  turn  their  souls  to  Thee, 

For  whom  their  souls  were  made ; 
Bring  them  to  th'  atoning  blood 

(Blood  that  speaks  a  world  forgiven), 
Make  them  serious,  wise,  and  good, 

And  train  them  up  for  Heaven." 

No  family,  however  holy,  is  free  from  affliction;  and, 
indeed,  sometimes  the  weight  of  affliction  seems  to  rise 
with  the  measure  of  holiness.  Charles  Wesley's  wife  was 
attacked  with  small-pox,  and,  for  a  time,  the  disease  threatened 
to  be  fatal.     Nevertheless,  she  was  spared ;  but  while  yet 


124  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

trembling  under  the  effects  of  the  trial,  their  first-born,  a  boy 
of  uncommon  promise,  was  cut  down  by  the  disease  which 
had  weakened  and  sadly  changed  the  mother.  The  poet 
felt  the  stroke  keenly,  but  maintained  his  power  to  minister 
comfort  to  his  wife.  He  wrote  a  hymn  for  her,  entitled 
"A  Mother's  Act  of  Resignation  on  the  Death  of  a  Child." 
It  was  sweet,  soothing,  and  full  of  spiritual  comfort.  Its 
influence  has  hushed  many  a  sorrowing  mother  since  then. 

"  In  the  course  of  pastoral  visitation,"  says  a  city  pastor, 
"  I  found  my  way  once  into  a  cellar,  in  one  of  the  crowded 
suburbs  of  Manchester.  There  was  a  comparatively  young 
couple,  in  miserable  poverty,  partly  resulting  from  the  afflic- 
tion of  the  husband,  who  was  evidently  dying  of  consumption. 
He  sat  in  moody  silence  over  a  low  fire.  The  poor  mother 
was  on  the  end  of  a  ragged  couch,  bending  in  anguish  over 
the  dead  body  of  her  child,  which  looked  beautiful  in  death. 
I  sat  down,  and  tried  first  to  console  the  woman  j  then, 
turning  to  the  father,  I  said,  '  There  is  bright  and  certain 
hope,  you  know,  in  the  departure  of  a  little  one.'  '  I  don't 
know,'  was  the  curt  reply.  'That  is  my  library,'  he  added, 
pointing  to  a  shelf,  on  which  there  were  a  few  volumes  of 
modern  infidel  authors ;  '  you  may  know  now  what  my 
opinions  are.'  '  Yes  ;  but  you  know,'  I  replied,  '  that  such 
opinions  are  no  help  to  you  now.  They  don't  supply  you 
with  one  comfortable  answer  to  the  cravings  of  your  soul  as 
it  is  moving  towards  another  world.  You  want  something 
to  clear  your  prospects.  I  am  not  going-  to  dispute  with 
you  ;  but  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  have  a  wife,  and  that  we 
have  known  what  it  is  to  lose  a  child — a  lovely  boy.  My 
wife  was  reconciled  to  her  loss  by  thinking  of  what  her 
child  had  gained  ;  and  she  was  helped  to  this  sweet  resigna- 
tion by  a  hymn  which  I  read  to  her.  It  was  a  hymn  written 
by  a  bereaved  father  like  you  and  I,  and  written  for  the 
comfort  of  his  wife  under  the  trial,  such  as  your  wife  is  now 
suffering.  Come,  I  will  give  you  the  hymn  as  well  as  I 
can.'  I  then  rehearsed  Charles  Wesley's  verses,  known  as 
'  A  Mother's  Act  of  Resignation.' 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     J  2^ 

*'  Peace,  my  heart,  be  calm,  be  still, 
Subject  to  my  Father's  will ; 
God  in  Jesus  reconciled 
Calls  for  His  beloved  child  ; 
Who  on  me  Himself  bestow'd 
Claims  the  purchase  of  His  blood. 

Child  of  prayer,  by  grace  Divine, 
Him  I  willingly  resign, 
Through  his  last  convulsive  throes 
Borne  into  the  true  repose, 
Borne  into  the  world  above, 
Glorious  world  of  light  and  love ! 

Through  the  purple  fountain  brought, 
To  his  Saviour's  bosom  caught, 
Him  in  the  pure  mantle  clad, 
In  the  milk-white  robe  array'd, 
Follower  of  the  Lamb  I  see ; 
See  the  joy  prepared  for  me. 

Lord,  for  this  alone  I  stay ; 

Fit  me  for  eternal  day ; 

Then  Thou  wilt  receive  Thy  bride 

To  the  souls  beatified, 

Then  with  all  Thy  saints  I  meet, 

Then  my  rapture  is  complete. 

"  As  I  closed  I  saw  the  poor  mother's  face  gathering  calm- 
ness, and  there  was  a  tear  in  the  dying  father's  eye.  I 
invited  them  to  join  me  in  prayer.  There  were  sobs  ;  and 
on  rising  from  our  knees,  the  woman's  face  had  brightened, 
though  wet  with  tears.  '  I  will  follow  my  child  to  Jesus/ 
said  she.  'And  so  will  I,'  sobbed  the  broken-hearted  man. 
The  end  was  happy.  The  wife  found  a  heavenly  Friend 
under  her  greater  bereavement.  She  lost  her  husband  ;  but 
the  sceptic  was  saved." 

Charles  Wesley  had  deep  and  universal  sympathy  with 
suffering  human  nature.  His  loving  heart  led  him  into  all 
accessible  scenes  of  mental  conflict,  bodily  anguish,  and  per- 
plexity and  pressure  of  circumstances.  Indeed,  he  was 
more  marvellously  gifted  with  insight  into  varieties  of 
human  misery  and  trial  than  any  other  of  our  hymnists. 
And  it  is  to  his  experience  as  a  sufferer  in  Christian  fellow- 
ship with  sufferers  that  we  owe  some  of  his  most  touching, 
consoling,  and  richly  fruitful  hymns. 


126 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


It  is  refreshing  in  this  mortal  life  to  fall  in,  here  and  there, 
with  a  pilgrim  so  anointed  with  the  heavenly  Spirit  as  to 
rise  fairly  above  the  sufferings  incidental  to  human  nature. 
One  such  instance  can  never  be  forgotten.  The  man,  a 
strong  robust  man,  had  rheumatic  fever  in  a  cottage-chamber 
under  the  shelter  of  Mount  Edgecumbe,  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Tamar.  He  was  a  good  man.  For  several  days  there  had 
been  an  agonising  struggle  to  "  let  Patience  have  her  per- 
fect work."  But,  when  his  pastor  called,  he  was  really 
triumphing  with  "joy  unspeakable  and  full  of  glory j" 
literally  "  glorying  in  tribulation."  There  were  shouts  and 
songs  by  turns.  As  the  visitor  entered  the  room,  he  was 
singing,  with  a  clear,  ringing  voice — 

This  is  the  straight  and  royal  way 
That  leads  us  to  the  courts  above  ; 

Here  let  me  ever,  ever  stay, 

Till,  on  the  wings  of  perfect  love, 

I  take  my  last  triumphant  flight 

From  Calvary's  to  Siorts  height ! 

In  answer  to  a  question  as  to  his  spiritual  comfort,  he 
said,  "  I  had  been  lying  here  for  several  days,  suffering  as  I 
never  thought  my  poor  body  could  suffer.  But  for  some 
time  the  Lord  kept  me  in  patience,  until  I  began  to  feel 
that  I  could  not  stand  it  much  longer.  I  was  afraid  that, 
after  all,  I  should  murmur  against  the  Lord.  '  Lord/  said 
I,  '  keep  me  ! '  Then  I  began  to  think  about  the  martyrs. 
I  had  read  that  some  of  them  sang  in  the  fire  j  and  I  said, 
'  Why  shouldn't  I  sing  ? '  It  seemed  to  be  said  to  me, 
'  You  are  not  a  martyr,  and  you  can't  look  for  such  joy.' 
'  I  am  not  a  martyr,'  said  I  to  myself,  '  though  I  am  called 
to  suffer  perhaps  as  much  as  if  I  had  been  in  the  fire.  My 
God  who  appoints  me  to  this  suffering  is  the  same  God  as 
called  the  martyrs  to  theirs.  He  is  as  able  to  help  me  as 
He  was  to  help  them,  and  as  willing  too.  Lord,'  I  cried, 
'  give  me  the  victory  !  I  believe  Thou  wilt  Thou  dost !  ' 
I  shouted,  for  in  a  moment  there  was  a  light  upon  my  soul, 
a  joy  within  me  that  was  like  heaven  in  the  midst  of  my 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     127 

pain.  The  pain  was  not  gone,  but  it  was  over-balanced  by 
the  joy ;  and  I  said,  '  If  the  joy  cannot  stay  without  the 
pain,  let  the  pain  stay,  Lord  ! '  Then  I  knew  what  that 
verse  meant,  and  could  sing  it — 

"  When  my  sorrows  most  increase, 
Let  Thy  strongest  joys  be  given  : 
Jesus,  come  with  my  distress, 
And  agony  is  heaven. 

Nor  have  I  been  able  ever  since  to  keep  myself  from  singing 
another  hymn — that  beautiful  hymn  for  'believers  suffering.' 
Come,  sing  it  with  me."  The  song  was  raised ;  and  never 
did  that  hymn  appear  so  full  of  holy  music,  deep  meaning, 
and  heavenly  refreshment,  as  when  the  pastor's  voice  fell 
into  harmony  with  that  of  the  agonising  man,  in  singing  : — 

Saviour  of  all,  what  hast  Thou  done, 

What  hast  Thou  suffer'd  on  the  tree  ? 
Why  didst  Thou  groan  Thy  mortal  groan, 

Obedient  unto  death  for  me  ? 
The  mystery  of  Thy  passion  show, 
The  end  of  all  Thy  griefs  below. 

Thy  soul  for  sin  an  offering  made, 

Hath  clear'd  this  guilty  soul  of  mine ; 
Thou  hast  for  me  a  ransom  paid, 

To  change  my  human  to  Divine 
To  cleanse  from  all  iniquity 
And  make  the  sinner  all  like  Thee. 

Pardon,  and  grace,  and  heaven  to  buy, 

My  bleeding  Sacrifice  expired  : 
But  didst  Thou  not,  my  Pattern,  die, 

That,  by  Thy  glorious  Spirit  fired, 
Faithful  to  death  I  might  endure, 
And  make  the  crown  by  suffering  sure  ? 

Thou  didst  the  meek  example  leave, 

That  I  might  in  Thy  footsteps  tread ; 
Might,  like  the  Man  of  Sorrows,  grieve, 

And  groan,  and  bow  with  Thee  my  head  ; 
The  dying  in  my  body  bear, 
And  all  Thy  state  of  suffering  share. 

Thy  every  perfect  servant,  Lord, 

Shall  as  his  patient  Master  be, 
To  all  Thy  inward  life  restored, 

And  outwardly  conform'd  to  Thee  ; 
Out  of  Thy  grave  the  saint  shall  rise 
And  grasp,  through  death,  the  glorious  prize. 


128  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

This  is  the  straight  and  royal  way 

That  leads  us  to  the  courts  above ; 
Here  let  me  ever,  ever  stay, 

Till,  on  the  wings  of  perfect  love, 
I  take  my  last  triumphant  flight 
From  Calvary's  to  Sion's  height ! 

The  spirit  in  which  this  sufferer  sang  must  have  been  the 
spirit  of  many  among  the  suffering  early  Methodists  ;  and 
from  some  of  the  hymns  which  Charles  Wesley  wrote  "  For 
the  Brotherhood/'  it  is  evident  that  in  their  u  brotherhood" 
of  suffering  they  often  mutually  stimulated  one  another  to 
"  rejoice  in  tribulation."  This  is  strikingly  shown  in  the 
fact  that,  from  the  beginning,  and  for  many  generations,  one 
favourite  hymn  was  always  swelling  from  the  harmonised 
voices  of  the  societies.  It  was  a  joy  which  might  make  one 
forget  the  distress  of  life,  to  hear  the  old  Methodists  sing  : — 


Come  on,  my  partners  in  distress, 
My  comrades  through  the  wilderness, 

Who  still  your  bodies  feel ; 
Awhile  forget  your  griefs  and  fears, 
And  look  beyond  the  vale  of  tears 

To  that  celestial  hill! 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  time  and  space, 
Look  forward  to  that  happy  place, 

The  saints'  secure  abode ; 
On  Faith's  strong  eagle  pinions  rise, 
And  force  your  passage  to  the  skies, 

And  scale  the  mount  of  God. 

See  where  the  Lamb  in  glory  stands, 
Encircled  with  His  radiant  bands, 

And  join  th'  angelic  powers  ; 
For  all  that  height  of  glorious  bliss 
Our  everlasting  portion  is, 

And  all  that  Heaven  is  ours. 

Who  suffer  for  our  Master  here, 
We  shall  before  His  face  appear, 

And  by  His  side  sit  down  : 
To  patient  faith  the  prize  is  sure, 
And  all  that  to  the  end  endure 

The  Cross  shall  wear  the  crown. 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     I2Q 

Thrice  blessed  bliss-inspiring  hope  ! 
It  lifts  the  fainting  spirits  up, 

It  brings  to  life  the  dead  : 
Our  conflicts  here  shall  soon  be  past, 
And  you  and  I  ascend  at  last, 

Triumphant  with  our  Head. 

That  great  mysterious  Deity 

We  soon  with  open  face  shall  see  : 

The  beatific  sight 
Shall  fill  the  heavenly  courts  with  praise, 
And  wide  diffuse  the  golden  blaze 

Of  everlasting  light. 

The  Father  shining  on  His  throne, 
The  glorious  co-eternal  Son, 

The  Spirit  One  and  Seven, 
Conspire  our  rapture  to  complete  ; 
And,  lo  !  we  fall  before  His  feet, 

And  silence  heightens  Heaven. 

In  hope  of  that  ecstatic  pause, 
Jesus,  we  now  sustain  Thy  cross, 

And  at  Thy  footstool  fall, 
Till  Thou  our  hidden  life  reveal, 
Till  Thou  our  ravished  spirits  fill, 

And  God  is  all  in  all. 

Every  verse  of  this  exalted  and  exalting  song  has  had  its 
numerous  illustrations  from  year  to  year — now  one,  and 
now  another — now  in  this  scene  of  life,  and  now  in  that. 
A  young  man  who  was  born  blind  in  Tewkesbury,  rather 
more  than  fifty  years  ago,  was  brought  from  spiritual  dark- 
ness to  light  while  a  mere  boy.  He  soon  became  known 
as  a  kind  of  walking  Bible,  and  had  stored  his  sanctified 
memory  with  at  least  five  hundred  of  Wesley's  hymns.  Of 
these,  one  seemed  to  be  ever  rising  in  his  soul  with  saving 
freshness,  as,  in  his  seventeenth  year,  he  neared  the  land  of 
immortal  light.  He  had  a  foresight  of  his  last  mortal  day, 
as  that  day  approached  ;  and  when  it  came,  a  day  of  suffer- 
ing, his  father  said,  "  O,  my  dear  boy,  you  are  called  to 
suffer  !  "     He  answered,  in  a  song — 

Who  suffer  with  our  Master  here, 
We  shall  before  His  face  appear, 
And  by  His  side  sit  down. 


130 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


And,  after  a  moment  or  two,  the  blind,  but  happy  young 
saint  sang  again — 

Thrice  blessed  bliss-inspiring  hope  ! 
It  lifts  the  fainting  spirits  up, 

It  brings  to  life  the  dead : 
Our  conflicts  here  shall  soon  be  past, 
And  you  and  I  ascend  at  last 

Triumphant  with  our  Head. 

It  was  his  last  song  as  a  sufferer.  His  head  fell  on  the 
pillow,  and  his  final  "  conflict  "   was  u  past." 

Another  young  devoted  Methodist  passed  away  from 
Ebchester  once,  with  portions  of  the  same  hymn  on  her  lips. 
A  witness  says  : — "  On  the  day  of  her  departure,  sitting  in 
her  chair,  as  she  had  done  for  some  time  both  night  and 
day,  she  broke  out  into  singing  with  a  loud  voice.  Her 
friends  were  startled,  for  she  had  spoken  but  in  whispers  for 
several  weeks.  They  gathered  around  and  listened.  She 
kept  up  her  songs  for  half  an  hour,  and  then  requested  that 
they  would  sing  with  her — 

Come  on,  my  partners  in  distress. 

She  struck  in  here  and  there  with  great  earnestness,  now 
and  then  saying,  "  Sing  on  ! — sing  on  !  "     They  sang — 

To  patient  faith  the  prize  is  sure, 
And  all  who  to  the  end  endure 
The  Cross  shall  wear  the  crown. 

She  asked  for  the  window  to  be  opened,  and,  as  if  talking  to 
spiritual  attendants,  she  said,  "  Stay,  stay ;  I  am  not  yet 
ready  !  "  Her  sight  now  became  dim,  and  she  called  us  to 
come  nearer  to  her,  and  sing  on — 

Tha   great  mysterious  Deity 

We  soon  with  open  face  shall  see  : 

The  beatific  sight 
Shall  fill  the  heavenly  courts  with  praise, 
And  wide  diffuse  the  golden  blaze 

Of  everlasting  light. 

She  waved  her  hands,  and  sang  with  deep  feeling — 

And,  lo  !  we  fall  before  His  feet 
And  silence  heightens  Heaven. 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     131 

There   was   silence ;    she    was  at   the   feet    of  her   visible 
Master. 

There  are  some  hymns  which  make  themselves  felt  at 
once — as  soon  as  they  fall  on  the  ear — hymns  which  never 
lose  their  freshness  and  power,  never  cease  to  widen  their 
influence  until  they  are  acknowledged  as  things  of  life,  by 
all  souls,  in  all  lands,  and  over  all  seas.  Such  a  hymn  is 
one  of  Charles  Wesley's — a  hymn  whose  music  is  kept  up 
on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic.  It  has  often  been  on  the  lips 
of  departing  saints  in  this  land,  when,  as  an  old  saint  said, 
"They  see  their  native  land  in  the  distance,  and  the  sea 
intervening — a  sea  which  none  is  able  to  cross  unless  borne 
by  the  Cross  of  Christ."  One  hymn  has  often  helped  them 
to  "  cling  to  the  wood  and  cross  the  sea."  Thousands 
have  been  aided  as  the  venerable  John  Lomas,  of  Man- 
chester, was,  who,  after  more  than  forty  years  of  Methodist 
pilgrimage  and  faithful  service,  came  to  the  flood  in  1854, 
"clung  to  the  Cross,  and  crossed  the  sea,"  uttering  his 
favourite  hymn  with  his  latest  breath — 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high. 

This  was  the  first  verse  of  the  Methodist  poet's  immortal 
hymn  to  be  sung  "  In  Temptation."  Its  living  music  has 
passed  over  the  great  waters  into  the  land  where  the  poet 
put  forth  the  first  efforts  of  his  genius  as  a  hymnist.  Dr. 
Belcher  says,  "  Mr.  Gould  mentions  the  influence  of  singing 
on  the  mind  of  a  minister  in  Vermont.  He  was  a  stranger 
called  to  officiate  for  a  Sabbath  in  a  cold  and  dreary  church. 
When  he  entered  it,  the  wind  howled,  and  loose  clapboards 
and  windows  clattered.  The  pulpit  stood  high  above  the 
first  floor.  There  was  no  stove,  but  a  few  persons  in  the 
church,  and  those  few  beating  their  hands  and  feet  to  keep 
them  from  freezing.  He  asked  himself,  '  Can  I  preach  ? 
Of  what  use  can  it  be  ?     What  shall  I  do  ?     Can  these  two 


1$2  THE    rOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

or  three  singers  in  the  gallery  sing  the  words  if  I  read  a 
hymn  ?     I  concluded  to  make  a  trial.,  and  read — 

"  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, 

Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  waters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high  : 
Hide  me,  O  my  Saviour,  hide, 

Till  the  storm  of  life  is  past ; 
Safe  into  the  haven  guide, 

O,  receive  my  soul  at  last. 

Other  refuge  have  I  none, 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee  : 
Leave,  ah  !  leave  me  not  alone, 

Still  support  and  comfort  me. 
All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stay'd, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring ; 
Cover  my  defenceless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing. 

Wilt  Thou  not  regard  my  call  ? 

Wilt  Thou  not  accept  my  prayer  ? 
Lo  !  I  sink,  I  faint,  I  fall — 

Lo  !  on  Thee  I  cast  my  care  : 
Reach  me  out  Thy  gracious  hand  ! 

While  I  of  Thy  strength  receive, 
Hoping  against  hope  I  stand, 

Dying,  and,  behold,  I  live  ! 

Thou,  O  Christ,  art  all  1  want, 

More  than  all  in  Thee  I  find  ; 
Raise  the  fallen,  cheer  the  faint, 

Heal  the  sick  and  lead  the  blind. 
Just  and  holy  is  Thy  name, 

I  am  all  unrighteousness  ; 
False  and  full  of  sin  I  am, 

Thou  art  full  of  truth  and  grace. 

Plenteous  grace  with  Thee  is  found, 

Grace  to  cover  all  my  sin  : 
Let  the  healing  streams  abound, 

Make  and  keep  me  pure  within. 
Thou  of  life  the  Fountain  art ; 

Freely  let  me  take  of  Thee, 
Spring  Thou  up  within  my  heart, 

Rise  to  all  eternity  ! 

"  They  commenced,  and  the  sound  of  a  single  female  voice 
has  followed  me  with  an  indescribable,  pleasing  sensation 


MORE  ABOUT  SONGS  FROM  THE  BROTHERS.     I33 

ever  since,  and  probably  will  while  I  live.  The  voice, 
intonation,  articulation,  and  expression  seemed  to  me  per- 
fect. I  was  warmed  inside  and  out,  and  for  the  time  was 
lost  in  rapture.  I  had  heard  of  the  individual  and  voice 
before;  but  hearing  it  in  this  dreary  situation  made  it  doubly 
grateful.  Never  did  I  preach  with  more  satisfaction  to 
myself.  And  from  this  incident  I  learned  a  lesson  :  never 
to  be  discouraged  from  unfavourable  appearances,  but,  where 
duty  calls,  go  to  work  cheerfully,  without  wavering.'  ?' 

The  beautiful  hymn,  thus  sung  with  such  power  and 
happy  effect  in  Vermont,  has  served  in  other  instances  to 
melt  American  life  into  the  life  of  Heaven. 

A  fine,  intelligent  Virginian  young  man,  while  residing 
in  the  West,  became  an  infidel  and  a  blasphemer  of  the 
name  of  God.  From  this  state  he  was  delivered  by  reading 
the  work  of  Soame  Jenyns  ;  but,  while  he  acquiesced  in  the 
truth  of  revelation,  he  yet  did  not  feel  its  power.  He  was 
attacked  by  a  lingering  and  fatal  disease,  which  led  him  to 
reflection  and  prayer,  but  often  made  it  difficult  for  him  to 
converse.  Three  Christian  friends  sometimes  visited  him, 
to  beguile  the  tedious  hours  by  singing.  They  one  day 
entered  his  room,  and,  almost  without  any  previous  remarks, 
began  the  hymn — 

There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood ; 
And  then — 

The  voice  of  free  grace  cries  escape  to  the  mountain. 

He  then  said  to  them,  "  There  is  nothing  I  so  much  delight 
to  hear  as  the  first  hymn  you  ever  sang  to  me — 

"  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul." 

They  began  to  sing  it  to  the  tune  Martyn,  and  found  the 
solemnity  which  had  reigned  in  the  little  circle  while  singing 
the  two  former  hymns  began  to  be  changed  to  weeping. 
They  struck  the  touching  strains  of  the  second  stanza,  and 
the  weeping  became  loud;  the  heart  of  him  who  had  reviled 
Christ  broke,   and  they  feared  that  to  sing  the  remaining 


134 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


stanzas  would  be  more  than  he  could  bear.     When  singing 
in  his  room  after  this,  he  said,  "I  don't  think  I  shall  ever  hear 

"  Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul, 

sung  again.     It  so  excites  me  that  my  poor  body  cannot 
bear  it." 

That  "  poor  body  "  now  waits  for  the  awakening.  The 
rescued  spirit  has  met  the  author  of  his  loved  hymn,  and  in 
the  same  Paradise  sings,  without  weeping — 

Jesus,  Lover  of  my  soul ! 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    TN     SONG.        I3j 


CHAPTER  VII. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG. 


Spirit  of  God  !  whose  glory  once  o'er/hung 
A  throne,  the  Ark's  dread  cherubim  between, 
So  let  Thy  presence  brood,  though  now  unseen, 
O'er  those  two  powers  by  whom  the  harp  is  strung- 
Feeling  and  thought ! — till  the  rekindled  chords 
Give  the  long-buried  tone  back  to  immortal  words. 


[HILE  the  Wesleys  met  all  varieties  in  the  con- 
dition and  experience  of  religious  societies  by 
their  successive  issue  of  hymns  for  Christian 
"Fasts  and  Festivals,"  for  "Times  of  Trouble 
J  and  Persecution,"  on  "  Preparation  for  Death," 

and  "Funeral  Hymns,"  "Hymns  for  Families,"  for  "Chris- 
tian Friends,"  and  for  "  Children,"  "  Hymns  on  God's 
Everlasting  Love,"  and  for  all  "  Seekers  of  Redemption," 
there  never  was  any  startling  or  stirring  event  in  the  natural 
world  or  in  national  history,  but  they  were  ready  with  suit- 
able songs,  turning  all  passing  circumstances  to  account  for 
the  good  of  the  people.  They  gave  out  hymns  for  "  Times 
of  Tumult,"  "  On  the  Earthquake,"  "  Hymns  for  the 
Nation,"  hymns  of  "Intercession"  in  times  of  danger  to 
the  throne  and  to  English  hearths  and  altars.  Charles  pro- 
duced hymns  faster  and  more  freely  than  John  could  select, 
or  abridge,  or  revise.  The  pre-eminent  Methodist  poet  was 
too  full  of  feeling  to  allow  his  pen  to  cease  its  action  :  that 
ready  pen,  so  vigorous,  so  free,  so  easy,  so  full  of  fine 
English   harmonies,    so   happily   consecrated    to    Christian 


136 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


holiness.  The  poet  never  lacked  inventive  power  j  but  in  his 
eagerness  to  press  everything  into  his  Master's  cause,  he 
would  now  and  then  seize  the  expressed  thoughts  of  others, 
and  weave  them  into  the  texture  of  his  devotional  verse  ; 
ever,  with  beautiful  simplicity  and  unselfishness,  pouring  out 
his  soul  in  numbers  to  edify  the  Church,  and  to  supply 
Christian  homes  and  congregations  with  suitable  songs  for 
all  occasions  and  through  all  times. 

There  is  a  beautiful  entry  in  his  journal  marking  the 
birth-time  of  one  of  his  hymns  of  triumph  in  tribulation. 
"  May  20th,  1743,  I  got  once  more  to  our  dear  colliers  of 
Wednesbury.  ...  I  preached  in  a  garden  on  the  first  words 
I  met  (1  Cor.  ii.  1).  While  I  spoke  of  His  sufferings,  He 
looked  upon  us,  and  made  us  look  upon  Him  and  mourn. 
...  I  saw  a  piece  of  ground  given  us  by  a  Dissenter  to 
build  a  preaching-house  upon,  and  consecrated  it  by  a  hymn. 
I  walked  with  many  of  the  brethren  to  Walsall,  singing. 
We  were  received  with  the  old  complaint :  '  Behold,  they 
that  turn  the  world  upside  down  are  come  here  also.'  I 
walked  through  the  town  amidst  the  noisy  greetings  of  our 
enemies,  and  stood  on  the  steps  of  the  market-house.  An 
host  of  men  were  laid  against  us.  The  floods  lifted  up 
their  voices  and  raged  horribly.  I  opened  the  book  on  the 
first  presented  words,  Acts  xx.  24.  The  street  was  full  of 
fierce  Ephesian  beasts  (the  principal  man  setting  them  on), 
who  roared,  and  shouted,  and  threw  stones  incessantly. 
Many  struck  without  hurting  me.  I  besought  them  in 
calm  love  to  be  reconciled  to  God  in  Christ.  While  I  was 
departing,  a  stream  of  ruffians  was  suffered  to  bear  me  from 
the  steps.  I  rose,  and  having  given  the  blessing,  was  beat 
down  again.  So  the  third  time,  when  we  had  returned 
thanks  to  the  God  of  our  salvation.  I  then  from  the  steps 
bade  them  depart  in  peace,  and  walked  quietly  through  the 
thickest  of  the  rioters.  They  reviled  us,  but  had  no  com- 
mission to  touch  a  hair  of  our  heads." 

The  song  of  " Thanks  to  the  God  of  our  Salvation"  broke 
for  the  first  time  like  trumpet-notes  of  victory  : — 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.       1.37 

Worship,  and  thanks,  and  blessing, 
And  strength  ascribe  to  Jesus  ! 

Jesus  alone 

Defends  His  own 
When  earth  and  hell  oppress  us. 
Jesus  with  joy  we  witness, 
Almighty  to  deliver; 

Our  seal  set  to 

That  God  is  true, 
And  reigns  a  King  for  ever. 

Omnipotent  Redeemer, 

Our  ransom'd  souls  adore  Thee, 

Our  Saviour  Thou, 

We  find  it  now, 
And  give  Thee  all  the  glory. 
We  sing  Thine  arm  unshorten'd, 

Brought  through  our  sore  temptation, 

With  heart  and  voice 

In  Thee  rejoice, 
The  God  of  our  salvation. 

Thine  arm  hath  safely  brought  us 
A  way  no  more  expected 

Than  when  Thy  sheep 

Pass'd  through  the  deep, 
By  crystal  walls  protected. 
Thy  glory  was  our  reward, 

Thine  hand  our  lives  did  cover, 

And  we,  even  we, 

Have  walked  the  sea 
And  march'd  triumphant  over. 

Thy  works  we  now  acknowledge, 
Thy  wondrous  loving-kindness, 

Which  held  Thine  own 

By  means  unknown, 
And  smote  our  foes  with  blindness. 
By  Satan's  host  surrounded, 

Thou  didst  with  patience  arm  us, 

But  would'st  not  give 

The  Syrians  leave, 
Or  Sodom's  sons,  to  harm  us. 

Safe  as  devoted  Peter, 

Betwixt  the  soldiers  sleeping, 

Like  sheep  we  lay, 

To  wolves  a  prey, 
Yet  still  in  Jesus'  keeping. 


i38 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


Thou  from  th'  infernal  Herod 

And  Jewish  expectation 

Hath  set  us  free  ; 

All  praise  to  Thee, 

O  God  of  our  salvation  I 

The  world  and  Satan's  malice, 
Thou,  Jesus,  hast  confounded  ; 

And  by  Thy  grace, 

With  songs  of  praise, 
Our  happy  souls  resounded. 
Accepting  our  deliverance, 
We  triumph  in  Thy  favour, 

And  for  the  love 

Which  now  we  prove 
Shall  praise  Thy  name  for  ever. 

This  song  became  a  favourite  form  of  thanksgiving  amidst 
the  joys  of  deliverance  from  persecutors.  A  few  months 
later  the  evangelizing  poet  was  again  among  the  Wednes- 
bury  lions.  "  I  found  the  brethren  assembled,  standing  fast 
in  one  mind  and  spirit,  in  nothing  terrified  by  their  adver- 
saries. The  word  given  me  for  them  was,  '  Watch  ye, 
stand  fast  in  the  faith,  quit  yourselves  like  men,  be  strong.' 
Jesus  was  in  the  midst,  and  covered  us  with  a  covering  of 
His  Spirit.  Never  was  I  before  in  so  primitive  an  assembly. 
We  sang  praises  lustily  and  with  a  good  courage,  and  could 
all  set  our  seal  to  the  truth  of  our  Lord's  saying,  '  Blessed 
are  they  that  are  persecuted  for  righteousness'  sake.'  We 
laid  down  and  slept,  and  rose  up  again,  for  the  Lord 
sustained  us.  We  assembled  before  day  to  sing  hymns  to 
Christ  as  God.  And  again,  there,  before  day,  was  the 
victorious  shout — 

"  Worship,  and  thanks,  and  blessing." 

A  series  of  alarming  events  opened  with  earthquake 
shocks  in  London  during  1 750.  The  genius  of  the  heavenly- 
minded  poet  seems  to  have  risen  with  the  occasion.  "  This 
morning,"  he  tells  his  brother,  "  at  a  quarter  after  five,  we 
had  another  shock  of  an  earthquake,  far  more  violent  than 
that  of  February  8th.  I  was  just  repeating  my  text,  when 
it  shook  the  Foundry  so  violently  that  we  all  expected  it  to 
fall  upon  our  heads.     A  great  cry  followed  from  the  women 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.       I39 

and  children.  I  immediately  cried  out,  '  Therefore  will  we 
not  fear,  though  the  earth  be  moved,  and  the  hills  be  carried 
into  the  midst  of  the  sea  ;  for  the  Lord  of  Hosts  is  with  us ; 
the  God  of  Jacob  is  our  refuge.'  He  filled  my  heart  with 
faith,  and  my  mouth  with  words,  shaking  their  souls  as  well 
as  their  bodies."  The  tokens  of  judgment  followed  each 
other  until  1756.  There  were  fears  of  invasion,  and  the 
kingdom  was  kept  in  painful  excitement.  John  Wesley 
made  his  appeal  to  his  countrymen  in  "  Serious  Thoughts  " 
about  the  Lisbon  earthquake.  "  How  many  hundred  thou- 
sand men,"  says  he,  "  have  been  swept  away  by  war,  in 
Europe  only,  within  half  a  century  !  How  many  thousands, 
within  little  more  than  this,  hath  the  earth  opened  her  mouth 
and  swallowed  up  !  ...  Is  there  not  a  God  that  judges  the 
world  ?  and  is  He  now  making  inquisition  for  blood  ?  .  .  . 
It  has  been  the  opinion  of  many  that  even  this  nation  has 
not  been  without  some  marks  of  God's  displeasure.  Has 
not  war  been  let  loose  even  within  our  own  land,  so  that 
London  itself  felt  the  alarm  ?  Has  not  a  pestilential  sick- 
ness broken  in  upon  our  cattle,  and,  in  many  parts,  left  not 
Dne  of  them  alive  ?  And,  although  the  earth  does  not  yet 
open  in  England  or  Ireland,  has  it  not  shook  and  reeled  to 
and  fro  like  a  drunken  man  ?  and  that  not  in  one  or  two 
places  only,  but  almost  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom  to  the 
other  ? " 

At  the  same  time,  amidst  the  "rumours  of  wars,"  Charles 
Wesley  went  up  and  down  faithfully,  warning  the  guilty,  and 
singing  with  the  faithful  in  hope  of  final  victory.  "At 
Nottingham  I  warned  them,"  he  says,  "of  the  impending 
judgments.  .  .  .  My  subject,  both  at  night  and  in  the 
morning,  was,  '  1  will  bring  the  third  part  through  the  fire.' 
It  was  a  time  of  solemn  rejoicing."  On  October  8,  1756, 
he  was  in  company  with  his  friend,  the  saintly  Grimshaw, 
of  Haworth.  His  record  is  :  "  We  spent  an  hour  in  inter- 
cession for  the  Church  and  nation.  I  exhorted  the  many 
persons  present  to  continue  instant  in  prayer,  and  mark  the 
answer  and  the  end."     After  another  week,  he  tells  us  : — "  I 


140  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

preached  a  second  time  at  Haworth  (Mr.  Grimshaw  reading 
prayers),  from  Psalm  xlvi.  8.  My  mouth  was  open  to 
declare  the  approaching  judgments,  and  the  glory  which 
shall  follow,  when  the  Lord  is  exalted  in  all  the  earth.  .  .  . 
After  an  hour's  interval  we  met  again,  as  many  as  the  church 
walls  would  contain,  but  twice  the  number  stood  without 
till  the  prayers  were  over.  Then  I  mounted  a  scaffold,  and, 
lifting  up  my  eyes,  saw  the  fields  white  unto  harvest.  We 
had  prayed  for  a  fair  day,  and  had  the  petitions  we  asked. 
The  churchyard,  which  will  hold  thousands,  was  quite 
covered.  God  gave  me  a  voice  to  reach  them  all.  I  warned 
them  of  those  things  which  shall  come  to  pass,  and  warmly 
pressed  them  to  private,  family,  and  public^  prayer  5  enlarged 
on  the  glorious  consequences  thereof,  even  deliverance  from 
the  last  plagues,  and  standing  before  the  Son  of  Man.  I 
concluded  and  began  again,  for  it  was  an  accepted  time.  I 
do  not  remember  when  my  mouth  has  been  more  opened, 
or  my  heart  more  enlarged." 

It  was  amidst  excitements,  labours,  and  triumphs  of  faith 
like  these  that  the  consecrated  powers  of  the  happy  poet  rose 
into  their  grandest  flights ;  and  amid  the  darkling  surround- 
ings of  the  hymnist,  his  voice  swells  with  the  more  impres- 
sive and  awe-inspiring  majesty,  as  he  sings  : — 


Righteous  God,  whose  vengeful  vials 

All  our  fears  and  thoughts  exceed, 
Big  with  woes  and  fiery  trials, 

Hanging,  bursting  o'er  our  head  : 
While  Thou  visitest  the  nations, 

Thy  selected  people  spare, 
Arm  our  cautioned  souls  with  patience, 

Fill  our  humbled  hearts  with  prayer. 

If  Thy  dreadful  controversy 

With  all  flesh  is  now  begun, 
In  Thy  wrath  remember  mercy, 

Mercy  first  and  last  be  shown  ; 
Plead  Thy  cause  with  sword  and  fire, 

Shake  us  till  the  curse  remove, 
Till  Thou  com'st,  the  world's  Desire, 

Conquering  all  with  sovereign  love. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.       I4I 

By  the  signals  of  Thy  coming 

Soon,  we  know,  Thou  wilt  appear, 
Evil  with  Thy  breath  consuming, 

Setting  up  Thy  kingdom  here : 
Thy  last  heavenly  revelation 

These  tremendous  plagues  forerun, 
Judgment  ushers  in  salvation, 

Seats  Thee  on  Thy  glorious  Throne. 

Earth  unhinged,  as  from  her  basis, 

Owns  her  great  Restorer  nigh, 
Plunged  in  complicate  distresses, 

Poor  distracted  sinners  cry: 
Men,  their  instant  doom  deploring, 

Faint  beneath  their  fearful  load  ; 
Ocean  working,  rising,  roaring, 

Claps  his  hands  to  meet  his  God. 

Every  fresh  alarming  token 

More  confirms  Thy  faithful  word, 
Nature  (for  its  Lord  hath  spoken), 

Must  be  suddenly  restored  : 
From  this  national  confusion, 

From  this  ruin'd  earth  and  skies, 
See  the  times  of  restitution, 

See  the  new  creation  rise  1 

Vanish  then  this  world  of  shadows, 

Pass  the  former  things  away  ; 
Lord,  appear,  appear  to  glad  us 

With  the  dawn  of  endless  day : 
O  conclude  this  mortal  story, 

Throw  this  universe  aside, 
Come,  eternal  King  of  Glory, 

Now  descend,  and  take  Thy  bride. 

John  Wesley  could  sometimes  use  the  pruning  knife  with 
good  effect,  and  here  and  there,  by  a  delicate  touch  or  two, 
he  has  certainly  improved  the  beauty  of  his  brother's  verses  ; 
but  some  of  his  rearrangements  and  efforts  at  abridgment 
prove  that  he  was  not  always  to  be  trusted.  Charles's  hymn, 
"After  Preaching  in  a  Church,"  has  been  unhappily  dealt 
with.  John's  selection  from  it  is  in  the  "Methodist  Hymn 
Book,"  beginning  with — 

Jesus,  the  Name  high  over  all ; 

but  the  abridgment  of  the  original  hymn  impairs  its  strength, 
breaks  its  unity,  and  mars  its  grandeur.     With  what  clarion- 


142  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

like    music    Charles's    own  song    rings    through    the    soul, 
especially  when  sung  with  the  spirit  which  fired  its  author  : — 

Jesus,  accept  the  grateful  song, 

My  Wisdom  and  my  Might, 
'Tis  Thou  hast  loosed  the  stammering  tongue, 

And  taught  my  hands  to  fight. 

Thou,  Jesus,  Thou  my  mouth  hast  been  ; 

The  weapons  of  Thy  war, 
Mighty  through  Thee,  I  pull  down  sin, 

And  all  Thy  truth  declare. 

Not  without  Thee,  my  Lord,  I  am 

Come  up  into  this  place, 
Thy  Spirit  bade  me  preach  Thy  name, 

And  trumpet  forth  Thy  praise. 

Thy  Spirit  gave  me  utterance  now, 

My  soul  with  strength  endued, 
Harden'd  to  adamant  my  brow, 

And  arm'd  my  heart  with  God. 

Thy  powerful  hand  in  all  I  see, 

Thy  wondrous  workings  own, 
Glory,  and  strength,  and  praise  to  Thee 

Ascribe,  and  Thee  alone. 

Gladly  I  own  the  promise  true, 

To  all  whom  Thou  dost  send, 
"  Behold,  I  always  am  with  you, 
'        Your  Saviour  to  the  end." 

Amen,  amen,  my  God  and  Lord, 

If  Thou  art  with  me  still, 
I  still  shall  speak  the  Gospel  Word, 

My  ministry  fulfil. 

Thee  I  shall  constantly  proclaim, 

Though  earth  and  hell  oppose, 
Bold  to  confess  Thy  glorious  Name, 

Before  a  world  of  foes. 

Jesus,  the  Name  high  over  all 

In  hell,  or  earth,  or  sky, 
Angels  and  men  before  it  fall, 

And  devils  fear  and  fly. 

Jesus,  the  Name  to  sinners  dear, 

The  Name  to  sinners  given, 
It  scatters  all  their  guilty  fear, 

And  turns  their  hell  to  Heaven. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        I43 

Balm  into  wounded  spirits  it  pours, 

And  heals  the  sin-sick  mind, 
It  hearing  to  the  deaf  restores, 

And  eyesight  to  the  blind. 

Jesus  the  prisoners'  fetters  breaks, 

And  bruises  Satan's  head, 
Power  into  strengthless  souls  it  speaks, 

And  life  into  the  dead. 

O  that  the  world  might  taste  and  see 

The  riches  of  His  grace  ! 
The  arms  of  love  that  compass  me 

Would  all  mankind  embrace. 

0  that  my  Jesus'  heavenly  charms 
Might  every  bosom  move ! 

Fly  sinners,  fly  into  those  arms 
Of  everlasting  love. 

The  lover  of  your  souls  is  near, 

Him  I  to  you  commend, 
Joyful  the  Bridegroom's  voice  to  hear, 

Who  calls  a  worm  His  friend. 

He  hath  the  bride,  and  He  alone, 
Almighty  to  redeem, 

1  only  make  His  mercies  known, 

I  send  you  all  to  Him. 

Sinners,  behold  the  Lamb  of  God ! 

On  Him  your  spirits  stay ; 
He  bears  the  universal  load, 

He  takes  your  sins  away. 

His  only  righteousness  I  show, 

His  saving  grace  proclaim  ; 
'Tis  all  my  business  here  below 

To  cry,  "  Behold  the  Lamb  ! ' 

For  this  a  suffering  life  I  live, 

And  reckon  all  things  loss ; 
For  Him  my  strength,  my  all  I  give, 

And  glory  in  His  cross. 

I  spend  myself  that  you  may  know 

The  Lord  our  righteousness  ; 
That  Christ  in  you  may  live  and  grow, 

I  joyfully  decrease. 

Gladly  I  hasten  to  decay, 

My  life  I  freely  spend, 
And  languish  for  the  welcome  day 

When  all  my  toil  shall  end. 


J44  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Happy  if,  with  my  latest  breath, 

I  might  but  gasp  His  name, 
Preach  Him  to  all,  and  cry,  in  death, 

"  Behold,  behold  the  Lamb !  " 

The  poet's  joy  seems  to  be  all  the  more  exalted  because  he 
once  more  preached  the  Gospel  "  in  a  church."  The  joy  of 
dispensing  the  Gospel  in  such  a  place  was,  perhaps,  be- 
coming rare.  As  the  thoughts  and  feelings  unfold  themselves 
from  verse  to  verse,  the  poet's  passion  glows  with  greater 
warmth  and  rushes  on  its  upward  course,  flashing  with  more 
and  more  of  life,  until  it  passes  into  a  rapt  devotion,  as  near 
as  can  be  to  that  of  a  disembodied  soul .  How  many  a  saint, 
both  old  and  young,  this  hymn  has  cheered  amidst  his 
struggles  to  maintain  his  conflict  with  Satan,  and  with  the 
latent  unbelief  of  the  heart.  How  many  a  minister  of  truth 
has  gathered  strength  from  it  in  his  work  of  proclaiming  his 
Master.  And  how  many,  who  are  now  beholding  the  Lamb, 
crossed  the  Jordan  into  His  presence  with  the  inspiring 
tones  of  this  hymn  on  their  dying  lips. 

It  has  been  with  thousands  as  it  was  with  Benjamin 
Edward  Knowles,  who,  in  1841,  fled  from  Birstal  into  Para- 
dise. Wasted  by  consumption,  he  awaited  his  Lord's  call. 
The  night  before  his  departure  was,  to  his  mother,  a  night 
of  weeping ;  but  seeing  her  tears,  the  happy  young  Christian 
said,  "  I  can  sing — 

"  Jesus,  the  Name  to  sinners  dear, 
The  Name  to  sinners  given, 
It  scatters  all  their  guilty  fear, 
It  turns  their  hell  to  Heaven  !  " 

With  his  hand  pressing   his  temples,  he  said,  "  O,  this  poor 

head  !     But,  mother,  it  is  not  crowned  with  thorns,  as  His 

was — 

"  Jesus  the  prisoners'  fetters  breaks, 
And  bruises  Satan's  head, 
Power  into  strengthless  souls  it  speaks, 
And  life  into  the  dead." 

He  asked  his  friends   to  cheer  his  last  hours  with  singing  j 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.         I^$ 

and  from  the  sound  of  those  voices  he  passed  within  hearing 
of  those  who  "  sing  the  Lamb  in  hymns  above." 

To  sing  her  favourite  hymns  was  the  life's  joy  of  Elizabeth 
Lee,  of  Nottingham.  She  sank  finally  into  mortal  weakness 
when  only  eighteen  years  of  age ;  but  her  passion  still  ruled 
her  soul  when  her  bodily  powers  refused  to  lift  themselves 
in  song.  She  burst  into  tears  when  thus  made  painfully 
sensible  of  her  weakness,  but  with  all  her  remaining  strength 
cried — 

Happy  if,  with  my  latest  breath, 

I  might  but  gasp  His  name, 
Preach  Him  to  all,  and  cry,  in  death, 
"  Behold,  behold  the  Lamb  !  " 

"  I  shall  go  home  to-day,"  said  she ;  and  as  the  evening 
came,  she  went  into  the  presence  of  Him  whose  name  hal- 
lowed her  last  mortal  breath. 

During  the  fatal  illness  of  the  late  Rev.  Robert  Wood,  some 
allusion  was  made  to  the  "  Great  Exhibition"  of  1851,  in 
which  he  had  always  shown  a  great  interest.  A  hope  was 
expressed  that  in  a  short  time  his  desire  to  visit  it  might  be 
gratified.  He  shook  his  head  and  said,  "  No,  I  shall  never 
see  the  '  Crystal  Palace.'  But  reach  me  the  Hymn  Book, 
read  the  73rd  hymn,  and  you  will  see  that  I  shall  not  lose 
much."  That  hymn  is  one  of  Charles  Wesley's  grandest 
effusions.  It  is  among  his  **  Funeral  Hymns,"  but  how 
exultant  is  its  music  !  All  the  crystal  palaces  of  earth  are 
comparatively  dim  to  the  eye  of  those  who,  as  "  joint  heirs 
with  Christ,"  are  "  come  unto  the  City  of  the  Living  God,  the 
Heavenly  Jerusalem,"  and  who  can  sing,  as  the  old  Metho- 
dists used  to  sing  : — 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear ! 

We  soon  shall  recover  our  home; 
The  city  of  saints  shall  appear, 

The  day  of  eternity  come  : 
From  earth  we  shall  quickly  remove, 

And  mount  to  our  native  abode, 
The  house  of  our  Father  above, 

The  palace  of  angels  and  God. 


J  46 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


Our  mourning  is  all  at  an  end, 

When  raised  by  the  life-giving  Word, 
We  see  the  new  city  descend, 

Adorn'd  as  a  bride  for  her  lord  ; 
The  city  so  holy  and  clean, 

No  sorrow  can  breathe  in  the  air ; 
No  gloom  of  affliction  or  sin, 

No  shadow  of  evil  is  there. 

By  faith  we  already  behold 

That  lovely  Jerusalem  here  ! 
Her  walls  are  of  jasper  and  gold, 

As  crystal  her  buildings  are  clear  : 
Immovably  founded  in  grace, 

She  stands  as  she  ever  hath  stood, 
And  brightly  her  builder  displays, 

And  flames  with  the  glory  of  God. 

No  need  of  the  sun  in  that  day 

Which  never  is  followed  by  night, 
Where  Jesus's  beauties  display 

A  pure  and  a  permanent  light ; 
The  Lamb  is  their  light  and  their  sun, 

And,  lo !  by  reflection  they  shine, 
With  Jesus  ineffably  one, 

And  bright  in  effulgence  Divine. 

The  saints  in  His  presence  receive 

Their  great  and  eternal  reward, | 
In  Jesus,  in  Heaven  they  live, 

They  reign  in  the  smile  of  their  Lord 
The  flame  of  angelical  love 

Is  kindled  at  Jesus's  face, 
And  all  the  enjoyment  above 

Consists  in  the  rapturous  gaze, 

Some  years  ago,  Mr.  Brewster,  a  Methodist  missionary, 
when  travelling  in  Newfoundland,  turned  aside  to  visit  an 
old  settler  whom  he  had  heard  of.  He  found  him  living 
with  his  daughters  ;  and  soon  the  talk  turned  upon  the  old 
country. 

(i  And  have  you  ever  seen  the  Shannon  ?  "  said  the  old 
man  j  "  and  do  ye  know  the  river  ?  " 

"  No,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  don't  know  it." 

The  old  man  then  told  the  story,  how  he  had  left  the 
banks  of  the  Shannon,  and  how,  when  all  were  sad  and 
sighing  as  they  parted  from  their  friends,  his  little  wife  sang — 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        I47 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear  ! 
We  soon  shall  recover  our  home  ; 

and  then,  how  they  started  on  their  journey ;  how,  when  they 
came  to  the  shore  and  were  ready  to  embark  and  to  leave 
the  old  country  behind,  the  tears  came,  but  his  little  wife 
sang  again — 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear! 

They  dried  their  tears  and  were  soon  on  board,  By-and-by 
a  storm  came,  and  all  was  terror.  The  captain  and  sailors 
gave  up  all  for  lost.  But  the  little  wife,  she  was  happy,  and 
began  to  sing — 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear  ! 

The  captain  plucked  up  courage ;  the  sailors  went  to  the 
pumps  j  the  storm  passed,  and  all  was  well.  They  landed  at 
length ;  and  when  they  found  themselves  left  in  the  wilder- 
ness, their  hearts  were  sad  and  heavy  ;  but  the  little  wife, 
she  sang  again — 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear  ! 

and  then  they  bestirred  themselves  ;  built  their  hut,  and  soon 
got  over  their  difficulties.  "But,"  said  the  old  man,  "and 
have  you  never  seen  the  Shannon  ?  " 

The  family  grew  up  -,  and  then  "  the  little  wife  "  sickened, 
and  while  they  were  around  her  dying  bed,  the  hymn  she 
loved  so  well  was  on  her  lips,  and  she  died  singing — 

Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear  ! 
We  soon  shall  recover  our  home. 

Among  Charles  Wesley's  "Christian  Festival  Songs,"  his 
hymns  for  Whit  Sunday  are  instinct  with  the  true  spirit  cf 
Pentecostal  times.  They  have  kept  their  life  j  and  many- 
times  since  his  day  have  they  served,  not  merely  as  celebrations 
of  repeated  Pentecosts,  but  as  the  happy  means  of  kindling 
the  spiritual  devotion  which  always  precedes  the  Hoi/ 
Ghost's  descent,  and  prepares  the  waiting  multitude  for  His 
richer  blessings.  A  Cornish  minister,  once  visiting  an  old 
Methodist  woman,  who,  in  her  ninety-sixth  year,  was  wait- 


148 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


ing  for  her  Lord  in  a  cottage  near  the  famous  Gwennap  Pit, 
said  to  the  venerable  pilgrim,  u  Well,  Whit  Monday  comes 
next  week  when  the  preaching  will  be  in  *  the  Pit ';  you  will 
not  be  able  to  join  us,  but  your  heart  will  sing  with  us,  I  am 
sure,  though  your  voice  will  not  be  there." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  old  saint,  "  I  shall  never  forget  the  singing 
we  had  there  on  the  Whit  Monday  after  my  conversion, 
which  was  in  the  great  revival  of  18 14.  O,  what  a  Pente- 
cost that  was  !  'Twas  all  over  the  country  !  and  when  the 
time  for  preaching  in  the  Pit  came  round,  O,  what  a  gather- 
ing of  happy  souls  there  was  !  O,  how  the  singing  went  up  !  " 
"  What  did  you  sing — can  you  remember  ?  " 
"  Yes,  I  can  tell  the  first  lines ;  but  the  hymn  is  in  that 
little  book  in  the  window ;  the  first  lines  were — 

u  Father  of  everlasting-  grace, 
Thy  goodness  and  Thy  truth  we  praise, 
Thy  goodness  and  Thy  truth  we  prove." 

"  Shall  I  read  the  whole  hymn  to  you  ?  " 

"  O,  I  should  like  to  hear  it  all  once  more.  It  will  freshen 
up  my  soul,  and  make  me  feel  as  if  I  were  converted  over 
again,  as  if  another  Pentecost  shower  was  coming  down." 

"  Now  then,  this  is  the  hymn  : — 

u  Father  of  everlasting  grace, 

Thy  goodness  and  Thy  truth  we  praise, 

Thy  goodness  and  Thy  truth  we  prove  : 
Thou  hast,  in  honour  of  Thy  Son, 
The  Gift  unspeakable  sent  down, 

The  Spirit  of  life,  and  power,  and  love : 

Thou  hast  the  Prophecy  fulfill'd, 
The  grand  original  compact  seal'd 

For  which  Thy  word  and  oath  were  join'd : 
The  Promise  to  our  fallen  head, 
To  every  child  of  Adam  made, 

Is  now  pour'd  out  on  all  mankind. 

The  purchas'd  Comforter  is  given, 
For  Jesus  is  return'd  to  Heaven, 

To  claim  and  then  the  Grace  impart ; 
Our  day  of  Pentecost  is  come, 
And  God  vouchsafes  to  fix  His  home 

In  every  poor  expecting  heart. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        I49 

Father,  on  Thee  whoever  call 
Confess  Thy  promise  is  for  all, 

While  everyone  that  asks  receives, 
Receives  the  Gift,  and  Giver  too, 
And  witnesses  that  Thou  art  true, 

And  in  Thy  Spirit  walks,  and  lives. 

Not  to  a  single  age  confined, 
For  every  soul  of  man  design'd, 

O  God,  we  now  that  Spirit  claim : 
To  us  the  Holy  Ghost  impart, 
Breathe  Him  into  our  panting  heart, 

Thou  hear'st  us  ask  in  Jesus'  name. 

Send  us  the  Spirit  of  Thy  Son, 

To  make  the  depths  of  Godhead  known, 

To  make  us  share  the  life  Divine ; 
Send  Him  the  sprinkled  blood  t'  apply, 
Send  Him  our  souls  to  sanctify, 

And  shew  and  seal  us  ever  Thine. 

So  shall  we  pray  and  never  cease, 
So  shall  we  thankfully  confess 

Thy  wisdom,  truth,  and  power,  and  love ; 
With  joy  unspeakable  adore, 
And  bless  and  praise  Thee  evermore, 

And  serve  Thee  like  Thy  hosts  above. 

Till,  added  to  that  heavenly  choir, 
We  raise  our  songs  of  triumph  higher, 

And  praise  Thee  in  a  bolder  strain; 
Out-soar  the  first-born  seraph's  flight, 
And  sing,  with  all  our  friends  in  light, 

Thine  everlasting  love  to  man." 

"Bless  the  Lord!  Bless  the  Lord!"  cried  the  dear  old 
woman.  "  Yes,  that's  it.  It  was  such  a  blessed  time  when 
thousands  of  us  took  up  those  words, — 

u  And  bless  and  praise  Thee  evermore, 
And  serve  Thee  like  Thy  hosts  above ! 

And  then  again,  O  my  dear  man,  it  seems  to  me   as  if  I 
hear  it  now — 

u  Out-soar  the  first-born  seraph's'flight, 

And  sing,  with  all  our  friends  in  light, 

Thine  everlasting  love  to  man  1 

"Bless  the  Lord!  'Tis  "everlasting  love!'  ' everlasting 
love ! ' 


IjO  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

A  lady  writing  on  "  The  Wesleys  and  their  Hymns,"  says, 
with  truth  and  beauty  : — "  It  was  for  the  founders  of  Method- 
ism to  diverge  so  far  from  the  staid  nonconforming  type  of 
Watts  and  Doddridge  as  to  show  that  the  modern  hymn 
was  capable  not  only  of  paraphrasing  Bible  truths,  but  of 
uttering  the  most  joyous  as  well  as  the  most  agonised  feel- 
ings of  the  heart;  to  combine  devout  spiritual  thought  and 
personal  experience  with  professed  reverence  and  adoration, 
and  so  to  bring  the  spirit  of  the  old  Hebrew  poetry  into  har- 
mony with  the  brighter  songs  of  the  New  Covenant  as  to 
blend  in  one  the  voices  of  all  who  are  by  faith  the  children 
of  faithful  Abraham." 

Charles  Wesley's  u  Select  Psalms  "  afford  many  rich  and 
beautiful  illustrations  of  these  remarks.  Of  the  hundred 
and  nine  Psalms  which  he  rendered  into  English  verse,  there 
are  some  gems  of  superior  value,  while  in  most  of  the  others 
he  manages  with  great  skill  to  unite  faithfulness,  strength, 
pathos,  unction,  and  pleasantly  appropriate  music  of  expres- 
sion. Who  can  chant  his  version  of  the  sixth  Psalm  without 
feeling  that  his  soul  is  brought  into  such  tuneful  sympathy 
with  the  plaintive,  suffering,  yet  trustful  "  Singer  of  Israel  " 
that  the  Hebrew  Psalmist  and  the  English  Christian  become 
one  in  the  spirit  of  their  song  ? — 


In  Thine  utmost  indignation, 

Do  not,  Lord,  Thine  own  chastise  ; 
In  Thine  infinite  compassion, 

Hear  my  feeble,  dying  cries  ! 
Hear  me,  for  my  bones  are  vex'd ; 

O  forgive,  forgive  my  sin  ! 
Sick  I  am,  and  sore  perplex'd, 

All  a  troubled  sea  within  ! 

Lord,  how  long  shall  Thy  displeasure 

Lengthen  out  my  punishment  ? 
O  correct  me,  but  in  measure  ! 

Let  Thy  yearning  heart  relent : 
Sinner's  Friend,  and  kind  Receiver, 

Cast  my  sins  behind  Thy  back : 
Turn  me  now,  my  soul  deliver, 

Save  me  for  Thy  mercy's  sake ! 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.       J5I 

0  reverse  the  mortal  sentence  ! 
Let  me  live  to  sing  Thy  grace : 

After  death  is  no  repentance  ; 

Dead,  I  cannot  sing  Thy  praise. 
Spent  I  am  with  enaless  groaning, 

Wash  with  tears  my  sleepless  bed  ; 
Weary  of  my  fruitless  moaning, 

Send  my  gasping  spirit  aid  1 

Shorn  of  all  my  strength,  I  languish ; 

See,  I  faint  beneath  my  load ! 
Faint  through  deep  distress  and  anguish, 

Faint  into  the  arms  of  God  ! 
God,  to  me,  in  great  compassion, 

Doth  a  gracious  token  give ; 

1  shall  see  His  whole  salvation, 

I  shall  all  His  love  retrieve. 

Leave  me,  then,  to  Jesus  leave  me, 

Ye  that  gloried  in  my  fall  I 
Jesus'  arms  shall  still  receive  me, 

He  hath  heard  my  mournful  call : 
He  hath  answered  my  petition, 

Show'd  Himself  the  sinner's  Friend, 
Saved  me  in  my  lost  condition, 

He  shall  save  me  to  the  end. 

By  a  world  of  foes  surrounded, 

By  the  hellish  sons  of  night, 
I  shall  see  them  all  confounded, 

Put  to  everlasting  flight. 
He  who  hath  my  sins  forgiven, 

All  my  sins  to  death  shall  doom, 
Hence  as  by  a  whirlwind  driven  : — 

Come,  my  utmost  Saviour,  come ! 

Charles  Wesley's  "  Short  Hymns  on  Select  Passages  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures"  were  originally  issued  in  1762.  In  their 
modern  form  of  publication  they  fill  nearly  five  volumes. 
The  poet  spent  many  years,  in  later  life,  revising  and  en- 
larging them.  This  was  a  work  of  love,  as  the  compositions 
were  evidently  favourites  with  him.  The  passages  on  which 
these  hymns  are  founded  range  from  the  beginning  of 
Genesis  to  the  end  of  Revelation.  His  brother  John  says, 
"  Many  of  these  are  little,  if  any,  inferior  to  his  former  poems, 
having  the  same  justness  and  strength  of  thought,  with  the 
same  beauty  of  expression ;  yea,  the  same  keenness  of  wit 


*p 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


on  proper  occasions,  as  bright  and  piercing  as  ever."  On  a 
second  reading,  he  adds,  "  Some  are  bad  ;  some  mean  ;  some 
most  excellently  good.  They  give  the  true  sense  of  Scrip- 
ture, always  in  good  English,  generally  in  good  verse."  The 
poet's  familiarity  with  Patristic  modes  of  interpreting  Scripture 
is  evident  in  some  of  his  hymns,  and  not  unfrequently  serves 
to  give  distinctive  beauty  to  his  verses.  He  confesses,  too, 
his  obligation  to  more  modern  commentators,  whose  thoughts 
he  seems  to  set  to  music  in  a  way  that  perhaps  the  grave 
authors  could  not  anticipate.  "  Many  of  the  thoughts,"  hesays, 
"  are  borrowed  from  Mr.  Henry's  '  Commentary,'  Dr.  Gell 
on  the  Pentateuch,  and  Bengelius  on  the  New  Testament." 
So  voluminous  a  poet,  dealing  with  such  a  range  of  themes, 
could  scarcely  be  free  from  inequality.  But  his  pages  are 
fairly  begemmed  with  well-cut  jewels.  How  happy  is  the 
turn  he  gives  to  Israel's  prayer  for  Joseph's  children,  "  And 
let  my  name  be  named  on  them  " — 

My  name  be  on  the  children  ?  No  : 

But  mark  them,  Lord,  with  Thine : 
Let  all  the  heavenly  offspring  know 

By  characters  Divine ; 
Partakers  of  Thy  nature  make, 

Partakers  of  Thy  Son, 
And  then  the  heirs  of  glory  take 

To  Thine  eternal  throne. 

Sentences  in  the  sacred  page  which  some  would  pass  over, 
he  is,  now  and  then,  arrested  by ;  and  under  his  eye  they 
become  instinct  with  instruction  and  wisdom.  The  cry  from 
the  sons  of  the  prophets,  when  they  had  tasted  the  poisoned 
pottage,  "There  is  death  in  the  pot!  "  is  made  to  suggest  a 
beautiful  lesson, — 


Death  in  the  pot !  'tis  always  there, 

The  bane  of  all  our  food, 
When  we  partake  it  without  fear, 

Without  an  eye  to  God  ; 
Unless  He  sanctify  the  meat, 

And  bless  us  from  the  sky, 
Unless  we  to  his  His  glory  eat, 

Our  souls  by  eating  die. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.       1^3 

Job's  melancholy  wail,  "  I  have  made  my  bed  in  the  dark- 
ness," is  brought  to  melt  into  exquisite  harmony  of  Christian 
hope  : — 

Ready  for  my  earthen  bed, 
Let  me  rest  my  fainting  head, 
Welcome  life's  expected  close, 
Sink  in  permanent  repose  : 
Jesus'  blood  to  which  I  fly 
Doth  my  conscience  purify, 
Signs  my  weary  soul's  release, 
Bids  me  now  depart  in  peace. 

Thus  do  I'my  bed  prepare; 
O,  how  soft,  when  Christ  is  there, 
There  my  breathless  Saviour  laid, 
Turns  it  to  a  spicy  bed  ; 
Resting  in  His  power  to  save, 
Looking  now  beyond  the  grave, 
Calm  I  lay  my  body  down,, 
Rise  to  an  immortal  crown. 


Nothing  can  be  more  touching  and  instructive  than  the 
poet's  efforts  to  maintain  the  exercise  of  his  genius,  as,  in  his 
latter  days,  he  found  his  wings  growing  faint.  Recollec- 
tions of  his  own  intense  youthful  zeal  during  the  earlier 
times  of  his  ministry,  the  readiness  and  impetuous  force  with 
which  he  pursued  his  holy  calling,  are  followed  by  feelings 
of  growing  weakness,  and  deepening  convictions  that  his 
period  of  action  is  passing  into  the  season  of  calm  sub- 
mission, final  weakness,  and  mental  decay.  A  characteristic 
letter  from  his  brother  John  affords  an  insight  into  his 
condition  towards  the  close  of  his  career.  "  Dear  Brother, — ■ 
You  must  go  out  every  day,  or  die.  Do  not  die  to  save 
charges.  You  certainly  need  not  want  anything  as  long  as  I 
live."  The  venerable  poet,  in  his  weakness,  turned  his 
thoughts  on  the  Lord's  address  to  Peter  :  "  When  thou  wast 
young,  thou  girdedst  thyself,  and  walkedst  whither  thou 
wouldest :  but  when  thou  shalt  be  old,  thou  shalt  stretch 
forth  thy  hands,  and  another  shall  gird  thee,  and  carry  thee 
whither  thou  wouldest  not."  And  catching  inspiration,  he 
gave  utterance  to  his  hymn  entitled  "A  Retrospect." 


'54 


THE    POETS     OF    METHODISM. 


When  young-,  and  full  of  sanguine  hope, 

And  warm  in  my  first  love, 
My  spirit's  loins  I  girded  up, 

And  sought  the  things  above  ; 
Swift  on  the  wings  of  active  zeal 

With  Jesus'  message  flew, 
O'erjoy'd  with  all  my  heart  and  will 

My  Master's  work  to  do. 

Freely  where'er  I  would  I  went 

Through  wisdom's  pleasant  ways, 
Happy  to  spend  and  to  be  spent 

In  ministering  His  grace  : 
I  found  no  want  of  will  or  power, 

In  love's  sweet  task  employ'd, 
And  put  forth  every  day  and  hour 

My  utmost  strength  for  God. 

As  strong  and  glorying  in  my  might, 

I  drew  the  two-edged  sword, 
Valiant  against  a  troop  to  fight 

The  battles  of  the  Lord  ; 
I  scorn'd  the  multitude  to  dread, 

Rush'd  on  with  full  career, 
And  aim'd  at  each  opposer's  head, 

And  smote  off  many  an  ear. 

But  now,  enervated  by  age, 

I  feel  my  fierceness  gone, 
And  nature's  powers  no  more  engage 

To  prop  the  Saviour's  throne  : 
My  total  impotence  I  see, 

For  help  on  Jesus  call, 
And  stretch  my  feeble  hands  to  Thee, 

Thou  workest  all  in  all. 

Thy  captive,  Lord,  myself  I  yield, 

As  purely  passive  clay ; 
Thy  holy  will  be  all  fulfill'd, 

Constraining  mine  t'  obey  ; 
My  passions  by  Thy  Spirit  bind, 

And,  govern'd  by  Thy  Word, 
I'll  suffer  all  the  woes  design'd 

To  make  me  like  my  Lord. 

Wholly  at  Thy  dispose  I  am, 

No  longer  at  my  own, 
All  self-activity  disclaim, 

And  more  in  God  alone  : 
Transport,  do  what  Thou  wilt  with  me, 

A  few  more  evil  days, 
But  bear  me  safe  through  all  to  see 

My  dear  Redeemer's  face. 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        I$$ 

The  name  of  Charles  Wesley  can  scarcely  be  mentioned 
without  a  thought  about  one  hymn  in  which  his  hallowed 
genius  rises  even  above  itself.  "  Dr.  Watts,"  John  Wesley 
says,  "  did  not  scruple  to  say  that  that  single  poem, '  Wrestling 
Jacob,'  was  worth  all  the  verses  he  himself  had  written." 
"Its  wonderful  conciseness,"  says  Mr.  John  Kirk,  with 
critical  justness,  "  yet  perfect  and  finished  picturing  of  the 
scene  on  the  Transjordanic  hills,  beyond  the  deep  defile 
where  the  Jabbok,  as  its  name  implies,  wrestles  with  the 
mountains  through  which  it  descends  to  the  Jordan.  The 
dramatic  form,  so  singular  in  hymnic  composition,  shadowing 
forth  the  action  of  the  conversation  ;  the  great  force  of  its 
thoroughly  English  expression ;  the  complete  finish  and 
rhythm  of  its  verse  ;  its  straightforward  ease  without  any 
straining  at  elegance  ;  and  the  minuteness  and  general  beauty 
of  its  application  of  the  narrative,  have  won  the  commenda- 
tions of  all  competent  critics."  The  theme  of  this  hymn  was 
a  favourite  theme  of  the  author's  preaching.  At  Kingswood, 
on  May  C4,  1741,  he  says,  "I  preached  on  Jacob  wrestling 
for  the  blessing.  Many  then,  I  believe,  took  hold  on  His 
strength,  and  will  not  let  Him  go  till  He  bless  them  and  tell 
them  His  name."  Soon  after  he  preached  with  similar  effect 
in  Cardiff".  After  the  publication  of  the  hymn,  the  power  of 
his  preaching  seemed  to  grow.  In  London,  June,  1744,  he 
writes,  "  I  preached  on  wrestling  Jacob,  and  a  glorious  time 
it  was.  Many  wept  with  the  angel,  and  made  supplication, 
and  were  encouraged  to  wait  upon  the  Lord  continually." 
And  so  again,  again,  and  again  at  Bristol  and  Dublin.  One 
would  like  to  have  heard  the  powerful  preacher  on  those 
occasions  give  out  his  own  hymn ;  to  have  seen  the  people  as 
they  kindled  under  its  musical  power  and  unction  ;  and  to 
have  heard  the  ring  and  swell  of  their  voices  as  they  sang 
together — 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown, 
Whom  still  I  hold,  but  cannot  see, 

My  company  before  is  gone, 

And  I  am  left  alone  with  Thee; 

With  Thee  all  night  I  mean  to  stay, 

And  wrestle  till  the  break  of  day. 


1& 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


I  need  not  tell  Thee  who  I  am, 

My  misery  or  sin  declare, 
Thyself  has  called  me  by  my  name, 

Look  on  Thy  hands  and  read  it  there  ; 
But  who,  I  ask  Thee,  who  art  Thou  ? 
Tell  me  Thy  name,  and  tell  me  now. 

In  vain  Thou  strugglest  to  get  free, 

I  never  will  unloose  my  hold  ; 
Art  Thou  the  Man  that  died  for  me  ? 

The  secret  of  Thy  love  unfold  ; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go 
Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 

Wilt  Thou  not  yet  to  me  reveal 

Thy  new  unutterable  name  ? 
Tell  me,  I  still  beseech  Thee,  tell ; 

To  know  it  now  resolved  I  am ; 
Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go 
Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 

Tis  all  in  vain  to  hold  Thy  tongue, 
Or  touch  the  hollow  of  my  thigh ; 

Though  every  sinew  be  unstrung, 
Out  of  my  arms  Thou  shalt  not  fly; 

Wrestling,  I  will  not  let  Thee  go 

Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 

What  though  my  shrinking  flesh  complain, 
And  murmur  to  contend  so  long, 

I  rise  superior  to  my  pain, 

When  I  am  weak  then  I  am  strong ; 

And  when  my  all  of  strength  shall  fail, 

I  shall  with  the  God-man  prevail. 

My  strength  is  gone,  my  nature  dies, 
I  sink  beneath  Thy  weighty  hand, 

Faint  to  revive,  and  fall  to  rise ; 
I  fall,  and  yet  by  faith  I  stand — 

I  stand,  and  will  not  let  Thee  go 

Till  I  Thy  name,  Thy  nature  know. 


Yield  to  me  now,  for  I  am  weak, 
But  confident  in  self-despair; 

Speak  to  my  heart,  in  blessings  speak, 
Be  conquer'd  by  my  instant  prayer  : 

Speak,  or  Thou  never  hence  shalt  move, 

AJad  tell  me  if  Thy  name  is  Love  ? 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        1^7 

'Tis  Love!  'tis  Love!  Thou  diedst  for  me; 

I  hear  Thy  whisper  in  my  heart ; 
The  morning  breaks,  the  shadows  flee, 

Pure  Universal  Love  Thou  art ; 
To  me,  to  all  Thy  bowels  move — 
Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

My  prayer  hath  power  with  God  ;  the  grace 

Unspeakable  I  now  receive ; 
Through  faith  I  see  Thee  face  to  face — 

I  see  Thee  face  to  face  and  live  ; 
In  vain  I  have  not  wept  and  strove  ; 
Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

I  know  Thee,  Saviour,  who  Thou  art — 

Jesus,  the  feeble  sinner's  Friend  ; 
Nor  wilt  Thou  with  the  night  depart, 

But  stay  and  love  me  to  the  end ; 
Thy  mercies  never  shall  remove — 
Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  on  me 

Hath  rose  with  healing  in  His  wings ; 

Wither'd  my  nature's  strength,  from  Thee 
My  soul  its  life  and  succour  brings  ; 

My  help  is  all  laid  up  above — 

Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

Contented  now  upon  my  thigh 

I  halt,  till  life's  short  journey  end  ; 
All  helplessness,  all  weakness,  I 

On  Thee  alone  for  strength  depend ; 
Nor  have  I  power  from  Thee  to  move — 
Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

Lame  as  I  am,  I  take  the  prey, 

Hell,  earth,  and  sin  with  ease  o'ercome; 

I  leap  for  joy,  pursue  my  way, 
And  as  a  bounding  hart  fly  home, 

Through  all  eternity  to  prove 

Thy  nature  and  Thy  name  is  Love. 

The  saintly  poet  had,  at  length,  his  own  last  wrestling. 
He  left  his  brother  John  to  give  out  the  favourite  hymn,  and 
thousands  whom  he  had  taught  to  wrestle  remained  behind 
to  sing  of  Israel's  victory.  About  three  weeks  after  his 
entrance  into  rest,  his  bereaved  brother  was  at  Bolton,  in 
Lancashire.  "  I  preached  in  the  evening,"  says  the  veteran, 
"  in  one  of  the  most  elegant  houses  in   the  kingdom  5  and 


1^8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

to  one  of  the  liveliest  congregations.  And  this  I  must  avow, 
there  is  not  such  a  set  of  singers  in  any  of  the  Methodist 
congregations  in  the  three  kingdoms.  There  cannot  be,  for 
we  have  near  a  hundred  such  trebles,  boys  and  girls,  selected 
out  of  our  Sunday  School  and  accurately  taught,  as  are  not 
found  together  in  any  chapel,  cathedral,  or  music-room  within 
the  four  seas.  Besides  the  spirit  with  which  they  all  sing, 
the  beauty  of  many  of  them  so  suits  the  melody  that 
I  defy  any  to  exceed  it  j  except  the  singing  of  angels  in  our 
Father's  house." 

Mr.  Haslam,  of  Markland  Hill,  near  Bolton,  was  a 
Methodist  of  John  Wesley's  stamp,  and  a  member  of  that 
"  liveliest  congregation  "  whose  singing  was  so  enjoyed  by 
the  venerable  preacher.  "  Mr.  Haslam  told  me,"  says  one, 
"many  years  ago,  while  upon  his  death-bed,  that  he  was 
present  in  the  chapel  at  Ridgeway  Gates  when  Mr.  Wesley 
visited  Bolton,  just  after  his  brother  Charles's  death.  The 
venerable  man,  himself  eighty-five  years  of  age,  commenced 
the  service  in  the  usual  way,  with  singing  and  prayer;  for 
the  second  hymn  he  selected  '  Wrestling  Jacob,'  and  gave 
out  the  first  verse  with  peculiar  emphasis.  When  he  came 
to  the  words, 

u  My  company  before  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  alone  with  Thee, 

his  emotion  became  uncontrollable,  and  he  burst  right  out 
into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  sat  down  in  the  pulpit,  covering  his 
face  with  both  hands.  The  effect  upon  the  congregation  was 
such  as  might  be  expected — the  people  ceased  to  sing,  and, 
in  many  parts  of  the  chapel,  sat  down  weeping  and  sobbing 
aloud.  The  congregation  was  very  large,  Saturday  night 
though  it  was ;  and,  said  Mr.  Haslam,  the  place  was  like 
a  Bochim.  After  a  while,  Mr.  Wesley  recovered  himself, 
arose,  and  gave  out  the  lines  again  ;  c  and  then  there  was  such 
singing,'  said  the  good  old  man,  '  as  I  never  heard  before  ;  it 
seemed  as  if  the  sound  would  lift  the  roof  off  the  build- 
ing.'   A  sermon  followed,  remarkable  for  the  holy  influence 


OTHER    PSALMS    FROM    THE    BROTHERS    IN    SONG.        I^y 

attending  the  delivery,  and  the  deep  impressions  it  seemed  to 
make  on  the  multitude  of  people." 

That  multitude  of  singers  has  passed  away.  The  aged 
weeping  preacher  has  had  all  tears  wiped  from  his  eyes.  He 
is  in  immortal  companionship  with  his  brother  poet.  The 
brothers  are  gone  from  our  sight,  but  they  are  brothers  in 
song  still.  Their  songs  remain  to  be  taken  up  by  genera- 
tions of  happy  singers  on  earth  j  while  they  "  rest  from  their 
labour,  and  their  works  do  follow  them." 


i6o 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER     VIII. 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS. 


^11 


He  came  to  earth : — From  eldest  years, 

A  long  and  bright  array 
Of  prophet-bards  and  patriarch-seers 

Proclaimed  the  glorious  day  : 
The  light  of  Heaven  in  every  breast, 

Its  fire  on  every  lip, 
In  tuneful  chorus  on  they  prest, 

A  goodly  fellowship. 


HAT  varieties  of  mighty  but  sweet  life-giving 
influence  may  spring  in  combination  from  one 
small  source,  to  unfold  and  spread  themselves 
for  ever  and  ever  !  It  is  so  in  material  nature ; 
and  so  in  the  region  of  Divine  Providence  and 
Grace.  These  outflowings  of  power  and  influence  for  good 
in  human  life  are  prepared  and  arranged  and  timed  by  the 
same  ruling  Wisdom  and  Rectitude  as  "  appointed  the  ordi- 
nances of  heaven  and  earth.''  The  secret  processes  of  their 
preparation  are  unobservable  by  man  : 

Deep  in  unfathomable  mines 

Of  never-failing  skill, 
He  treasures  up  His  bright  designs, 

And  works  His  sovereign  will. 

And  even  when  they  first  spring  into  human  sight,  it 
proves  impossible  for  us  to  foresee  or  anticipate  the  modes  or 
results  of  their  expansion, — 

Blind  unbelief  is  sure  to  err, 

And  scan  His  work  in  vain  : 
God  is  His  own  interpreter, 

And  He  will  make  it  plain. 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  l6l 

In  the  course  of  the  year  1733  a  few  young  collegians  of 
Oxon  might  be  found  together,  of  an  evening,  in  the  chamber 
of  one  of  the  Fellows  of  Lincoln  College.  For  a  time  they 
were  on  their  knees  at  prayer.  Then  they  joined  at  their 
evening  meal,  and  afcer  supper,  one  who  seemed  to  be  the 
acknowledged  leader,  having  in  his  very  face  something  of 
authority,  happily  mingled  with  modest  gentleness,  would 
conduct  the  friendly  intercourse  by  reading,  and  eliciting 
expressions  of  thought  from  his  companions,  guiding  them 
in  a  review  of  their  day's  work,  and  aiding  in  the  formation 
of  pious  and  charitable  plans  for  the  future.  This  was  u  The 
Holy  Club,"  as  the  mass  of  candidates  for  "  Holy  Orders  'r 
called  them  with  a  devout  sneer.  The  "  chief  manager  "  was 
John  Wesley,  followed  with  fraternal  deference  by  his 
cheerful,  open-hearted,  free,  and  practically  kind  brother 
Charles.  There  was  the  high-toned  ritualistic  William 
Clayton j  the  philosophic  and  dreamy  John  Gambold  j  the 
stirring  and  successful  evangelist,  Benjamin  Ingham 3  the 
contemplative  and  graceful  James  Hervey ;  the  eloquent, 
apostolic  George  Whitfield  j  and  a  few  others  of  like  spirit, 
though  of  less  prominent  name.  For  some  time,  these 
variously  gifted  human  spirits  held  together  in  a  combination 
which  appeared  almost  too  sacred  to  be  dissolved  by  circum- 
stances.    They  might  be  looked  at  as 

A  band  of  love,  a  threefold  cord, 
Which  never  could  be  broke. 

But  the  band  was  melted  by  and  by.  The  powers  and 
influences  that  had  risen  to  the  light  in  beautiful  oneness 
began  to  fall  off  into  different  channels,  and  the  members 
of  the  Holy  Club  went,  each  his  own  way,  to  fill  his 
own  place,  and  to  do  his  own  work.  One  fact  courts  deep 
attention.  Those  of  the  band  whose  memory  has  proved 
most  lasting,  and  whose  work  has  been  most  permanently 
fruitful,  added  to  their  powers  and  graces  as  evangelists, 
teachers,  and  pastors,  the  gifts  of  poetic  genius  and  taste.  So 
that  while,  by  the    ministry  of  the   Word,   they  were  the 


l62 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


means  of  gathering  multitudes  into  Christ's  fold,  they  were  pre- 
pared for  guiding  the  devotions  of  the  flock,  and  for  providing 
them  with  "  psalms  and  hymns  and  spiritual  songs."  Though 
some  of  them  ceased,  at  length,  to  follow  the  old  leader  of 
the  club,  John  Wesley,  and  even  loosened  their  fellowship 
with  his  genial  brother  Charles,  yet,  as  one  after  another  they 
realized  the  spirituality  and  freedom  of  true  believers  in  Christ, 
they  continued  to  preach  the  same  Saviour,  and  to  consecrate 
their  powers  of  song  to  the  service  of  the  same  Lord.  They 
were  Methodists  still,  as,  for  a  time,  they  still  had  the  honour 
of  being  reviled  as  Methodist  parsons  ;  while  in  spirit,  and 
by  the  law  of  original  Methodist  brotherhood,  they  were 
fairly  classed  among  the  "  Poets  of  Methodism."  When  the 
Wesleys  broke  away  from  the  Moravians,  or  were  excluded 
from  those  among  whom  they  first  found  the  joy  of  salvation 
by  faith  in  Christ  alone,  their  friend  and  brother,  Gambold, 
chose  Moravian  fellowship,  and  eventually  became  a  Mora- 
vian bishop.  His  poetic  genius,  however,  still  kept  identity 
with  early  Methodism  in  its  first  issue  of  "  Hymns  and 
Sacred  Poems  j  "  and  for  several  generations  the  Methodists 
learnt  to  quote  his  lines  as  recommended  for  their  devout  use 
by  John  and  Charles  Wesley. 

A  preacher,  one  of  early  Methodism's  "sons  of  thunder," 
seems  to  have  stored  his  mind  with  poetic  forms  of  expres- 
sion suitable  to  every  emergency.  On  one  occasion,  Gam- 
bold's  poem,  "To  a  Friend  in  Love,"  furnished  the  timely 
passage.  There  had  been  one  of  those  remarkable  visita- 
tions of  the  Blessed  Spirit  which  some  modern  Methodists,  as 
well  as  worldlings,  fail  to  understand,  and  during  the  graciously 
repeated  Pentecost,  large  numbers  of  both  young  and  old 
people  were  made  partakers  of  Divine  life,  under  marvellous 
manifestations  of  spiritual  power.  When  the  excitement 
had  been  somewhat  hushed,  the  preacher  alluded  to,  on 
coming  out  from  one  of  the  public  services,  saw  one  or  two 
of  the  young  men  walking  off,  each  in  company  with  a  young 
woman.  "There!  see!"  said  he,  "the  courting  devil  is 
got  among  them  already  !  " 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  163 

What  art  thou,  Love  ?  thou  strange  mysterious  ill, 
Whom  none  aright  can  know,  though  all  can  feel. 
From  careless  sloth  thy  dull  existence  flows, 
And  feeds  the  fountain  whence  itself  arose  ; 
Silent  its  waves  with  baleful  influence  roll, 
Damp  the  young  mind,  and  sink  th'  aspiring  soul, 
Poison  its  virtues,  all  its  powers  restrain, 
And  blast  the  promise  of  the  future  man. 

It  may  be  questioned  whether  Gambold,  or  the  Wesleys, 
who  published  his  verses,  intended  them  to  be  applied  with 
indiscriminate  harshness.  If,  however,  the  earlier  Methodists 
excelled  their  nominal  descendants  in  intensity  of  spiritual 
devotion,  they  were  certainly  less  guarded  against  ascetic  ex- 
tremes. The  philosophic  turn  of  Gambold's  mind,  his 
doubtful  style  of  thought,  his  mystic  dreaminess,  and  his 
tendency  to  unreal  views  of  human  life,  all  fitted  him  for  a 
place  among  the  Moravians  of  his  day,  rather  than  among 
the  Methodists.  His  genius  is  seen  at  its  best,  and  he  is 
most  agreeable  as  a  poet,  when  he  sings  on  "The  Mystery 
of  Life":— 

So  many  years  I've  seen  the  sun, 

And  call'd  these  eyes  and  hands  my  own, 

A  thousand  little  acts  I've  done, 

And  childhood  have  and  manhood  known  : 

O  what  is  Life  ?  and  this  dull  round 

To  tread,  why  was  a  spirit  bound  ? 

So  many  airy  draughts  and  lines, 

And  warm  excursions  of  the  mind, 
Have  fill'd  my  soul  with  great  designs, 

While  practice  grovell'd  far  behind  : 
O  what  is  Thought  ?  and  where  withdraw 
The  glories  which  my  fancy  saw  ? 

So  many  tender  joys  and  woes 

Have  on  my  quivering  soul  had  power  ; 
Plain  life  with  heightening  passion  rose, 

The  boast  or  burden  of  their  hour : 
O  what  is  all  we  feel  ?  why  fled 
Those  pains  and  pleasures  o'er  my  head  ? 

So  many  human  souls  divine, 

Some  at  one  interview  display'd, 
Some  oft  and  freely  mix'd  with  mine, 

In  lasting  bonds  my  heart  have  laid  : 
O  what  is  Friendship  ?  why  imprest 
On  my  weak,  wretched,  dying  breast  ? 


164  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

So  many  wondrous  gleams  of  light, 

And  gentle  ardours  from  above, 
Have  made  me  sit,  like  seraph  bright, 

Some  moments  on  a  throne  of  love  : 
O  what  is  Virtue  ?  Why  had  I, 
Who  am  so  low,  a  taste  so  high  ? 

Ere  long,  when  Sovereign  Wisdom  wills, 

My  soul  on  unknown  paths  shall  tread, 
And  strangely  leave,  who  strangely  fills 

This  frame,  and  waft  me  to  the  dead : 
O  what  is  Death  ? — 'tis  life's  last  shore, 
When  vanities  are  vain  no  more  ; 
Where  all  pursuits  their  goal  obtain, 
And  life  is  all  retouch'd  again ; 
Where  in  their  bright  result  shall  rise 
Thoughts,  virtues,  friendships,  griefs,  and  joys. 

The  life  which  seemed  such  a  mystery  to  Gambold  was 
begun  in  South  Wales.  He  was  the  son  of  an  English 
clergyman ;  was  born  at  Puncheston,  in  Pembrokeshire, 
April  10,  171 1.  His  home  training  was  truly  Christian,  and 
his  preparation  for  college  was  complete  when  he  was  fifteen. 
At  that  age  he  entered  Christchurch,  Oxford ;  and  there 
came  into  association  with  the  Wesleys.  Though  that  asso- 
ciation was  afterwards  broken,  the  poet's  beautiful  testimony 
to  its  gracious  influence  on  him  remains  on  record.  "  Mr. 
Wesley,  late  of  Lincoln  College,  has  been  the  instrument  of 
so  much  good  to  me  that  I  shall  never  forget  him.  Could 
I  remember  as  I  ought,  it  would  have  very  near  the  same 
effect  as  if  he  was  still  present  -,  for  a  conversation  so  un- 
reserved as  his,  so  zealous  in  engaging  his  friends  to  every 
'  instance  of  Christian  piety,'  has  left  nothing  now  to  be  said, 
nothing  but  what  occurs  to  us  as  often  as  we  are  disposed 

to  remember  him  impartially One  time  he  was  in  fear 

that  I  had  taken  up  notions  that  were  not  safe,  and  pursued 
my  spiritual  improvement  in  an  erroneous,  because  inactive, 
way.  So  he  came  over  and  stayed  with  me  near  a  week. 
He  accosted  me  with  the  utmost  softness,  condoled  with  me 
the  incumbrances  of  my  constitution,  heard  all  I  had  to  say, 
endeavoured  to  pick  out  my  meaning,  and  yielded  to  me  as 
far  as  he  could.     I  never  saw  more  humility  in  him  than  at 


. 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  l6^ 

this  time.  It  was  enough  to  cool  the  warmest  imaginations 
that  swell  an  overweening  heart."  It  was,  indeed,  his  custom 
to  humble  himself  most  before  the  proud, — not  to  reproach 
them  5  but  in  a  way  of  secret  intercession  to  procure  their 
pardon.  While  the  poet  was  still  in  the  border-land  between 
Methodism  and  Moravianism,  he  wrote  a  drama,  tl  The 
Martyrdom  of  Ignatius  :  a  Tragedy."  It  was  never  intended 
forthestage.  Nor,  as  a  written  drama,  would  it  be  a  model ; 
but,  as  a  poem,  it  is  valuable  as  a  thoughtful  embodiment 
of  those  religious  views  which  formed  the  permanent  point 
of  unity  between  him  and  Methodism.  He  was  one  with  the 
Wesleys  in  "holding  the  Head,"  and  in  maintaining  the 
principle  of  salvation  by  faith  in  Christ  alone,  His  own  ex- 
perience constrained  him  to  sing — 

Come  hither  ye  whom  from  an  evil  world 
The  name  of  Jesus  draws  !     You  count  him  sweet, 
And  great,  and  mighty,  by  that  glimm'ring  light 
Your  novice  minds  have  gained.     You  venerate 
That  full  acquaintance  and  that  vital  union 
Whereby  the  faithful  know  Him  ;  and  to  this 
You  now  aspire.     But  can  you  then  let  go 
Your  manly  wisdom,  and  become  as  babes, 
To  learn  new  maxims  and  the  mind  of  Christ  ? 
Can  you  forsake  your  former  ease  and  sunshine, 
To  associate  with  a  poor  afflicted  people, 
The  scorn  of  all  mankind  ?     Can  you  the  weight 
Of  your  whole  souls,  with  all  your  hopes  of  God, 
Rest  on  a  long-past  action  ;  and  that  such 
As  your  Lord's  mystic  but  opprobrious  death  ? 

Both  the  poet  and  his  old  friend  Wesley  had  learnt  to 
forsake  all  for  Christ  and  His  afflicted  people.  They  were 
ever  one  in  this.  What  a  pity  that  Wesley  should  ever  have 
had  to  say, "  Who  but  Count  Zinzendorf  could  have  separated 
such  friends  as  we  were  ?  Shall  we  never  meet  again  ? " 
Never  in  this  world  !  While  the  one  was  proving  how  a 
well-filled  life  of  active  zeal  can  permanently  bless  the  entire 
world,  the  other,  for  seventeen  years,  timorously  bore  the 
honours  of  episcopacy ;  by  turns  preaching  and  retiring  into 
stillness  ;  doing  homage  with  voice  and  pen  to  *  The  most 
dear  and  paternal  heart  of  Papa  Zinzendorf,"  and  singing  the 


l66  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

brethren's  fond   doggrel  hymns.      He    sang  at  the  Lord's 

Supper,  weak  and  wasted  with  suffering,  five  days  before  his 

departure,  and  was  heard   to  say,  as  his  sufferings  closed, 

"  Dear  Saviour,  remember  my  poor  name,  and  come,  come 

soon  !  "     He  quitted  his  mortal  pastorate  on  September  13th, 

1 77 1,  having  written  his  own  epitaph,  and  left  it  as  one  of  his 

purest  poetic  gems  : — 

Ask  not  who  ended  here  his  span ; 
His  name,  reproach,  and  praise  was  man. 
Did  no  great  deeds  adorn  his  course  ? 
No  deed  of  his  but  show'd  him  worse. 
One  thing  was  great,  which  God  supplied, 
He  suffer'd  human  life — and  died. 
What  points  of  knowledge  did  he  gain  ? 
That  life  was  sacred  all — and  vain  ; 
•Sacred  how  high,  and  vain  how  low, 
He  knew  not  here,  but  died  to  know. 

Gambold,  during  the  college  days  of  the  Holy  Club, 
writes  to  a  friend  respecting  one  of  their  number,  "  He  is  a 
man  of  surprising  greatness  of  soul ;  and  if  you  look  for  his 
virtues,  you  will  not  be  able  to  discover  them  one  by  one,  but 
you  will  see  that  he  walks  before  God  with  a  reverence  and 
alacrity  which  includes  them  all."  This  was  James  Hervey, 
a  native  of  Hardingstone,  near  Northampton.  Like  several 
of  his  devoted  companions,  he  was  the  son  of  a  country 
parson.  His  connection  with  the  little  Methodist  knot  in 
Oxford  began  in  1733,  when  he  was  about  nineteen.  '"  His 
character  and  career  "  have  been  described  as  "a  contrast  to 
those  of  Whitfield  and  Wesley.  He  was  essentially  contem- 
plative j  they  were  eminently  practical.  His  mission  was  to 
sanctify  the  sentimentalism  of  the  day.  In  him  the  breath 
of  life  did  not  blow,  as  in  Wesley,  in  a  strong,  steady,  all- 
pervading  current ;  or,  as  in  Whitfield,  like  a  rushing  and 
restless  wind  ■  but  in  a  gentle  zephyr,  toying  with  the  tresses 
of  the  trees,  shaking  the  petals  of  the  flowers  and  grasses  of 
the  grave,  yet  the  minister  of  convalescence,  and  the  mes- 
senger of  peace."  He  may  be  classed  among  the  poets  of 
Methodism  ;  his  soul's  life  was  poetic ;  his  prose  was  poetry  5 
the  flowing  harmony  of  his   distinctive    style  showed  the 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  l6j 

native  tunefulness  of  his  genius.  The  few  remains  of  his 
versified  fragments  awaken  regret  that  he  should  have  yielded 
to  the  scrupulous  feeling  once  expressed  to  his  sister — "  I  am 
so  far  from  carrying  on  my  versifying  designs  that  I  heartily 
wish  I  had  never  conceived  any  j  that  those  lines  I  sent  to 
my  cousin  had  either  never  been  made,  or  that  I  had  never 
heard  them  commended.  Pride  and  vanity  are  foolish  and 
unreasonable  in  dust  and  ashes,  and,  which  is  worse,  odious 
and  detestable  before  infinite  perfection  and  infinite  power." 
His  hallowed  talent  might  furnish  the  church  with  many  a 
spiritual  song.  One  of  his  has  often  been  sung  j  and  con- 
tinues graciously  to  aid  devout  observers  of  the  inspired  wise 
man's  counsel,  "  In  all  thy  ways  acknowledge  Him." 

Since  all  the  downward  tracts  of  time 

God's  watchful  eye  surveys, 
Oh,  who  so  wise  to  choose  our  lot, 

And  regulate  our  ways  ? 

Since  none  can  doubt  His  equal  love, 

Unmeasurably  kind, 
To  His  unerring,  gracious  will, 

Be  every  wish  resigned. 

Good  when  He  gives,  supremely  good, 

Nor  less  when  He  denies  ; 
E'en  crosses,  from  His  sovereign  hand, 

Are  blessings  in  disguise. 

It  is  his  poetic  vein  that  supplied  the  charm  to  the  pages 
of  "Meditations"  which  for  so  many  generations  aided  the 
devout  thought  of  the  Christian  multitude.  All  that  is  most 
precious  in  the  memory  of  Hervey  is  associated  with  his 
early  sojourn  in  the  West  of  England. 

"  Dear  old  Hartland  !  "  cried  a  Western  pilgrim,  "  many 
fond  memories  cluster  around  thee  :  were  it  only  the  memory 
of  the  day-dreams,  and  the  tranquillizing  thoughts  at  night, 
which  have  come  to  me  in  her  quiet  lanes,  and  wooded 
slopes,  and  seaward  tracks,  the  name  of  Hartland  mast  ever 
awake  pleasant  echoes  in  my  heart.  It  seems  but  yesterday 
since  I  was  rambling  down  the  narrow  valley  along  by  the 
stream  which  goes  onward  to  the  sea,  beguiling  its  way  by 
enticing    the    pensile   woods   to   whisper   responses   to    its 


j68  the  poets  of  Methodism. 

music  j  or  looking  at  what  remains  of  St.  Nectan's  Abbey ; 
or  mounting  the  broad  steps  of  the  path  from  the  abbey  to  the 
parish  church,  and  listening  to  the  local  tradition  about  the  tall 
lord  of  the  manor,  who  used  to  take  two  of  the  steps  at  an 
upward  stride  on  his  way  to  the  Sunday  Service  ;  or  trying 
to  picture  the  ^delicate  form  of  Hervey  trying  to  keep  up 
with  his  friend  Orchard,  the  long-striding  saintly  master  of 
Hartland  Abbey  ;  or  calling  up  the  devout  poet's  description 
of  his  retreat.  The  house  is  situate  in  a  fine  vale.  It  is 
an  ancient  structure,  built  for  the  use  of  religious  re- 
cluses, and  has  an  antique,  grave,  and  solemn  aspect ;  before 
it  is  a  neat  spot  of  ground,  set  apart  for  the  use  of  a  garden 
enriched  with  fruits,  and  beautified  with  flowers.  This  leads 
into  a  curious  sort  of  artificial  wilderness  made  of  elms  and 
limes,  planted  in  rows,  cut  into  form,  and  uniting  their 
branches.  In  the  midst  is  a  fountain  large  enough  to  swim 
in,  and  a  little  engine  playing  the  waters.  On  each  side  are 
arbours  for  shade  ;  in  various  parts  seats  for  rest ;  on  the 
right  hand  runs,  parallel  to  it,  a  clear  purling  brook  re- 
plenished with  trout ;  on  the  left  a  thick  grove  hanging  from 
the  side  of  a  hill  ;  the  one  serves  for  a  watery  mound,  the 
other  is  a  leafy  shelter  from  the  north  wind,  and  both,  I 
think,  greatly  ornamental.  This  you  will  say  is  pleasant ; 
but  how  unworthy  to  be  compared  with  those  blissful 
mansions  fitting  up  for  the  righteous  in  the  Heaven  of 
heavens  !  I  write  this  in  a  pleasure-house  upon  a  high  cliff,  on 
the  very  edge  of  the  sea.  On  one  side  a  vast  tract  of  land 
extends  itself,  finely  diversified  by  stately  trees,  floating  corn, 
and*  pasturage  for  cattle.  On  the  other  side  rolls  the  great 
and  wide  sea.  Which  way  soever  I  look,  I  meet  with  footsteps 

of  the   Divine  immensity I  have  been  about  twenty, 

or  twenty-six  miles  into  Cornwall,  and  seen  wondrous  work- 
manship of  the  All-creating  God ;  ragged  rocks,  roaring  seas, 
frightful  precipices,  and  dreadfully  steep  hills." 

He  had  gone*  from  Bideford  to  Kilkhampton,  in  North 
Cornwall.  That  journey  has  often  been  enjoyed  by  others 
since  then.     One  who  has   gone   over  the  ground  says : — 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  169 

"  Many,  many  a  Sabbath  sun  has  set  on  Kilkhampton  since 
that  evening, 

....  Most  calm,  most  bright, 

When  I  jogged  into  it  for  the  first  time,  half  plaintive,  half 
jubilant,  as  I  saw  the  people  passing  the  graves  of  their  fore- 
fathers on  their  way  to  the  House  of  God.  I  thought  of 
Hervey,  when  I  saw  the  noble  old  parish  church,  whose  fine 
Anglo-Norman  doorway  still  invited  the  steps  of  the  pilgrim 
who  loves  to  commune  with  God  amidst  the  crumbling  memo- 
rials of  departed  men.  I  lingered  long  before  that  altar-piece, 
and  turned  again  and  again  to  gaze  on  the  elaborate  monu- 
ment of  Sir  Bevil  Grenville  j  feeling  as  if  the  ground  were 
the  holier  because  there  Hervey  conceived  the  thoughts 
which,  in  their  embodiment,  have  improved  the  hearts  of 
more  than  one  generation."  It  was  with  the  image  of  this 
Grenville  monument  before  his  mind  that  the  meditative  poet 
says,  "  As  to  such  earthly  memorials,  yet  a  little  while,  and 
they  are  all  obliterated.  But  as  many  names  as  are  enrolled 
'  in  the  Lamb's  Book  of  Life,'  they  shall  never  be  blotted 
out  from  those  annals  of  eternity." 

Make  the  extended  skies  your  tomb  ; 

Let  stars  record  your  worth  : 
Yet  know,  vain  mortals,  all  must  die, 

As  nature's  sickliest  birth. 

Would  bounteous  Heav'n  indulge  mypray'r, 

I  frame  a  nobler  choice  ; 
Nor  living,  wish  the  pompous  pile ; 

Nor  dead  regret  the  loss. 

In  Thy  fair  Book  of  Life  divine, 

My  God,  inscribe  my  name, 
There  let  it  fill  some  humble  place, 

Beneath  the  slaughter'd  Lamb. 

Thy  saints,  while  ages  roll  away, 

In  endless  fame  survive  ; 
Their  glories,  o'er  the  wrongs  of  time, 

Greatly  triumphant,  live. 

Hervey's  health  was  so  far  improved  by  his  sojourn  at 
Hartland  that  he  undertook  the  duties  of  a  curate  at  Bideford. 
He  began  his  work  there  in  the  enjoyment  of  that  u  peace 


I70  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

with    God    through    our    Lord    Jesus    Christ "    which   had 

inspired   his   old    Oxford  companions,   too,  with  power  to 

exercise  their  saving  ministry.     Like  a  true   Methodist,  he 

formed  a  religious  society  in  Bideford,  even  before  Methodism 

under  Wesley  had  taken  its   society  form.     But  that  which 

distinguished  his  life  at  Bideford  was  the  composition  of  his 

"  Reflections  on  a  Flower  Garden."     This  work  was  partly 

done  among  the  flowers,  as  he  sat  in  the  summer-house  of  a 

garden  attached  to  the  house  in  which  he  lodged.     To  the 

pleasant  inspirations  which  came  upon  him  there,  we  owe 

the  verses  which  he  has  modestly  thrown  into  the  margin  of 

his  page  of  reflection  on  the  inspired  utterance,  "  All  flesh 

is   grass,    and  all   the    goodliness    thereof   is   as  the  flower 

of  the  field  "  ;  as  if  he  would  apologize  for  associating  poetic 

rhyme  with   his  poetic    prose,  he   says,  ^"  The  reader  will 

excuse  me  if  I  imitate  rather  than  translate  Theocritus  ;  if  I 

vary  one  image,  add  another,  and  give  a  new  turn  to  the 

whole." 

When  snows  descend,  and  robe  the  fields 

In  winter7 s  bright  array  ; 
Touch'd  by  the  sun,  the  lustre  fades, 
And  weeps  itself  away. 

When  spring  appears ;  when  violets  blow, 

And  shed  a  rich  perfume ; 
How  soon  the  fragrance  breathes  its  last  I 

How  short-lived  is  the  bloom  ! 

Fresh  in  the  morn,  the  summer  rose 

Hangs  withering  ere  'tis  noon  ; 
We  scarce  enjoy  the  balmy  gift, 

But  mourn  the  pleasure  gone. 

With  gliding  fire,  an  evening  star 

Streaks  the  autumnal  skies  ; 
Shook  from  the  sphere,  it  darts  away, 

And,  in  an  instant,  dies. 

Such  are  the  charms  that  flush  the  cheek, 

And  sparkle  in  the  eye  : 
So,  from  the  lovely  finish'd  form, 

The  transient  graces  fly. 

To  this  the  seasons,  as  they  roll, 

Their  attestation  bring : 
They  warn  the  fair ;  their  every  round 

Confirms  the  truth  I  sing. 


CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS.  T7I 

Hervey  was  more  happy  in  "Meditations"  than  in  theological 
discussion.     His  attachment  to  John  Wesley,  as  an   Oxford 
Methodist,  had  been  warm  and  tender.     "  Shall  I  call  you," 
said  he,  once,  "  my  father  or  my  friend  ?  for  you  have  been 
both  to  me.     I  heartily  thank  you,  as  for  all  other  favours,  so 
especially  for  teaching  me  Hebrew.      I  have  cultivated  the 
study  again  according  to  your  advice ;  I  never  can  forget  that 
tender-hearted  and  generous    Fellow  of    Lincoln  who  con- 
descended to  take  such  compassionate  notice  of  a  poor  under- 
graduate, whom  almost  everybody  contemned,  and  when  no 
man  cared  for  my  soul."     After  this  it  is  lamentable  that 
difference   of  theological  opinion  should  result  in  estrange- 
ment.    In  the  year  1755   Hervey  issued  his  greatest  book, 
"  Theron  and  Aspasia  "  ;  in  which  doctrinal  truth  is  wrought 
up  with  descriptive  passages  in  the  style  of  his  "Meditations." 
Wesley  said  of  the  work,   "  Most  of  the  grand  truths  of 
Christianity   are   herein    explained    and   proved   with   great 
strength  and  clearness."    At  the  same  time,  there  were  a  few 
things  to  which  he  took  exception,  and  on  which  he  gave  the 
author  his  private  criticisms.     Hervey  not  only  treated  his 
repeated  communications  with  silence,  but,  under  an  unhappy 
influence,    prepared  an  answer  to  them,   and  unfortunately 
submitted  his  sheets  to  the  inspection  of  others.     On  this, 
Wesley  published  his  strictures.     His  last  letter  to  Hervey  is 
touching.     "  O  leave  not  your  old  well-tried  friends  !     The 
new  are  not  comparable  to  them.     I  speak  not  this  because  I 
am  afraid  of  what  anyone  can  say  or  do  to  me ;  but  I  am 
really   concerned   for  you.     An   evil   man   has   gained   the 
ascendant  over  you ;  and  has  persuaded  a  dying  man,  who. 
had  shunned  it  all  his  life,  to  enter  into  controversy  as  he  is 
stepping  into  eternity  !     Put  off  your  armour,  my  brother  ! 
You  and  I  have  no  moments  to  spare.     Let  us  employ  them 
all  in  promoting  peace  and  goodwill  among  men.     And  may 
the  peace  of  God  keep  your  heart  and  mind  in  Christ  Jesus." 
Hervey  did  not  live  to  publish  the  response  to  his  old  friend's 
criticisms.     Six  years  after  he  was  gone,  it  was  issued  in  a 
stealthy  way  by  a  disguised  hand.     Then  it  was  published 


172  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

under  the  sanction  of  William  Hervey,  the  deceased's  brother. 
There  was  a  spirit  in  it  unlike  that  of  Wesley's  old  friend. 
But  Wesley's  charity  did  not  fail.  "  And  is  this  thy  voice, 
my  son  David  ?  "  said  he,  plaintively.  "  Is  this  thy  tender, 
loving,  grateful  spirit  ?  No  ;  the  hand  of  Joab  is  in  all  this." 
The  "generous  Fellow  of  Lincoln"  was  willing  to  believe 
that  Hervey 's  posthumous  letters  had  been  tampered  with. 
To  believe  that  the  bitter  parts  of  these  letters  were  written 
by  the  dying  man  so  close  upon  his  last  moments,  would  be  to 
have  the  pain  of  thinking  that  "  good  Mr.  Hervey  died 
cursing  his  spiritual  father."  God  forbid  !  The  spiritual 
father  and  his  tender,  loving,  contemplative,  and  poetical  son 
in  the  Gospel  have  met  long  since,  in  reconciliation  and 
peace. 

Hervey  became  his  father's  curate  at  Weston  Favel  in  the 
year  1743.  On  his  father's  departure,  he  became  the  rector; 
and  so,  for  fifteen  years  of  rural  retirement,  he  spent  a  con- 
templative, literary,  and  pastoral  life. 

How  full  of  Heaven  his  latest  word ! 
"  Thou  bid'st  me  now  in  peace  depart  ; 

For  I  have  known  my  precious  Lord, 

Have  clasped  Thee,  Saviour,  in  my  heart ; 

My  eyes  Thy  glorious  joys  have  seen  !" 

He  spake,  he  died,  and  entered  in. 

Thus  Charles  Wesley  sang  on  the  news  of  his  old  com- 
panion's upward  flight. 

Another  member  of  the  original  Holy  Club,  George 
Whitfield,  had  kept  in  closer  bonds  with  Hervey,  as  having 
entire  sympathy  with  his  doctrinal  notions,  as  well  as  with 
his  poetic  genius  and  taste.  "  And  is  my  dear  friend  indeed 
about  to  take  his  last  flight?  "  he  asks,  in  a  letter,  just  before 
Hervey's  correspondence  on  earth  ceased.  "  Farewell !  my 
dear,  dear  friend !  F-a-r-e-w-e-11 !  Yet  a  little  while  and 
we  shall  meet 

Where  sin,  and  strife,  and  sorrow  cease, 
And  all  is  love,  and  joy,  and  peace!  " 

The  meditative  poet,  though  so  strangely  fearful  of  in- 
dulging vanity  by  putting  his  poetic  thoughts  into  rhyme, 
had  sent  hymns  occasionally  to  Whitfield ;   and  these  were 


CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  I  73 

associated,  by  the  great  preacher,  with  spiritual  songs  of  his 
own,  for  purposes  of  public  and  social  worship.  Whitfield 
had  poetry  enough  in  his  soul  to  make  hymns  now  and  then ; 
and  some  of  these  serve  to  illustrate  his  own  character  ;  while 
they  have  graciously  aided  many  a  Christian  in  expressing 
devout  feeling  amidst  the  discipline  of  life.  Scarcely  any- 
thing could  be  more  interesting  than  to  find  the  man  who 
moved  up  and  down  shaking  the  multitudes,  and  thrilling  the 
consciences  of  the  polite  few,  by  his  thundering  appeals, 
occasionally  retiring  to  supply  the  quiet  scenes  of  social  and 
family  life  with  a  peculiarly  suitable  little  psalm.  It  was 
something  deeply  touching  to  a  soul  susceptible  of  home 
tenderness  when,  on  entering  the  cottage  of  a  pious  young 
couple,  once,  the  mother  was  found  gently  rocking  in  the 
nursing  chair  by  the  hearth,  with  her  first  baby  at  her  breast, 
and  singing  in  a  sweet  undertone — 

Lo  !  from  the  borders  of  the  grave, 
Jesus,  Thy  hand  is  strong  to  save ; 

And  thou  hast  made  it  bare  ! 
In  deep  distress  thine  handmaid  prayed. 
And  thou  hast  interposed  Thine  aid 

In  answer  to  her  prayer. 

Oft  was  her  soul  depressed  with  fear, 
As  the  expected  hour  drew  near, 

And  greatly  did  she  mourn  ; 
But  now  her  gloomy  fears  depart, 
And  smiling  mercy  melts  her  heart, 

And  former  joys  return. 

Thus  favoured  in  the  time  of  need, 
Her  eyes  behold  her  infant  seed, 

And  praises  fill  her  tongue; 
Her  husband  of  the  joy  partakes, 
And  now  his  happy  soul  awakes, 

To  join  the  grateful  song. 

The  same  tuneful  hymnist  had  furnished  a  working-man 
with  devout  beguilement  of  his  way  to  and  from  his  scene  of 
daily  toil. 

"  You  seem  to  be  in  good  spirits,  friend,"  said  one  who 
knew  the  singer.  "  It  is  a  happy  thing  for  a  man  who  has 
family  cares  like  yours  to  be  able  to  march  to  the  music  of 
his  own  voice  when  on  the  way  to  labour." 


174  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  Yes,  so  it  is,"  was  the  reply ;  "  we  are  not  without  cares, 
you  may  be  sure,  with  a  family  of  twelve  children,  especially 
as  some  of  them  are  of  an  age  to  make  us  think  about  how 
they  will  get  on  in  life.  But  my  wife  has  often  said,  and  so 
say  I,  that  though  we  have  a  home  full,  there's  not  one  too 
many.  I  believe  God  will  bless  them  and  provide  for  them, 
and  save  them  ;  as  he  did  with  my  father  before  me,  and 
with  me  and  my  wife.  But  I  think  my  heart  is  kept  up 
often,  when  otherwise  it  would  go  down,  by  my  way  of 
singing  on  the  road.  It  is  always  one  song  with  me,  and 
one  prayer.  But  the  Lord,  I  believe,  never  gets  tired  of 
hearing ;  and  I  am  sure  while  I  keep  from  being  tired  of 
singing,  he'll  answer  me  and  bless  my  children.  This  is  my 
song  :— 

"  Thou  who  a  tender  parent  art, 
Regard  a  parent's  plea  ; 
My  offspring,  with  an  anxious  heart, 
I  now  commend  to  Thee. 

My  children  are  my  greatest  care, 

A  charge  which  Thou  hast  given  ; 
May  grace  their  every  heart  prepare 

To  seek  the  joys  of  Heaven. 

If  a  Centurion  could  succeed 

Who  for  his  servant  cried, 
Wilt  thou  refuse  to  hear  me  plead 

For  those  so  near  allied  ? 

Almighty  Father,  God  of  grace, 

Be  to  my  children  kind  ; 
Among  thy  saints  give  them  a  place, 

And  leave  not  one  behind." 

This  was  one  of  Whitfield's  hymns,  and  happy  even  in 
Paradise  would  he  be  to  know  that  his  hymn-making  faculty 
had  borne  fruit  as  well  as  his  preaching  power. 

In  the  first  band  of  Methodist  collegians,  none  was  more 
earnest  and  devout  than  Benjamin  Ingham.  And  when,  like 
his  brethren,  he  at  length  found  the  spiritual  freedom  and 
power  of  God's  adopted  sons,  he  appeared  as  "a  burning 
and  shining  light."  There  was  a  saving  power  in  his  early 
ministry  which  brought  multitudes  to  repentance  and  peace. 
Swayed,  however,  by  Moravian  influence,  he  turned,  by  and 


CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  [75 

by,  from  his  Methodist  companions,  and  became  a  centre  of 
Moravian  action  in  the  North  of  England.  His  ministry 
had  been  hallowed  to  several  in  high  rank  of  life.  One  of 
his  titled  converts  was  united  to  him  in  marriage  ;  and  in 
association  with  "  honourable  women,"  his  influence  widened 
its  range.  Then  he  separated  himself  from  the  Moravians ; 
ordained  preachers ;  and  acted  as  bishop  over  the  large 
societies  which  he  had  formed.  Seduced  now  by  the  dim 
uncertainties  of  the  Sandemanian  faith,  or  no  faith,  he  lived 
to  see  the  results  of  his  labours  melt  away.  He,  too,  was 
gifted  as  a  song-master  5  issued  a  Hymn  Book  for  the  use  of 
"The  Societies,"  and  taught  his  converts  how  to  sing  the 
songs  which  he  and  some  of  his  old  friends  composed.  But  his 
Societies,  for  the  most  part,  broke  away  from  him.  His 
Hymn  Book  fell  into  disuse ;  and  his  poetic  contributions  to 
it  passed  into  oblivion  with  the  voices  which  used  to  sing 
them.  The  handsome  but  somewhat  erratic  evangelist  and 
hymnist  finished  his  career  in  his  native  county,  Yorkshire, 
at  the  age  of  sixty,  not  very  long  after  his  loving  and  be- 
loved Lady  Ingham  had  entered  into  rest. 

An  interview  once  with  a  "widow  indeed"  is  never  to  be 
forgotten.  It  was  on  a  summer  afternoon  in  the  country, 
when  everything  felt  quiet  and  cool  after  a  refreshing 
shower.  In  a  retired  villa  a  few  miles  out  of  London,  amidst 
fruit-trees,  roses,  honeysuckles,  and  jasmine,  there  was  a 
summer-like  drawing-room  looking  out,  on  one  side,  upon  a 
lawn  bounded  by  stately  trees  and  fringed  with  flowers,  and 
on  the  other,  opening  into  a  little  paradise  of  a  conservatory 5 
there  the  dear  old  woman  sat  in  a  small  elbow  chair,  and 
looked  like  a  pattern  of  antique  simplicity  and  gracefulness. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  black  silk  gown,  open  at  the  neck  so  as 
to  show  a  snowy  neckerchief  folded  and  pinned  under 
the  chin  j  with  a  small  neatly  fringed,  cream-coloured  shawl 
brought  over  the  shoulders  and  fastened  at  the  waist  in  front, 
with  its  corners  falling  over  a  white  muslin  apron.  She 
wore  a  mobbed  cap,  with  a  modest  crown,  and  a  neat  close 
border,  yet  not  so  close  as  to  hide  a  clear,  open  brow,  beauti- 


1/6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

ful  still ;  and  it  seemed  more  sweetly  beautiful  with  its 
silvered  locks  than  when  it  had  been  more  richly  adorned  in 
the  prime  of  womanhood.  The  charming  old  saint's  face 
inspired  loving  veneration — a  fair  complexion,  beautifully 
touched  with  fresh  colour.  Her  eyes  revealed  a  spiritual 
depth  of  kindness  and  peace.  Her  features  combined  to 
express  power,  perspicacity,  gentleness,  repose,  and  love. 
And  there  was  something  in  the  expression  which  inspired 
the  thought  of  a  transforming  process  already  begun  between 
mortal  age  and  immortal  youth.  In  opinion,  taste,  and 
feeling,  she  was  an  amiable  representative  of  the  last 
century  ;  used  to  close  and  acute  observation,  well  informed, 
remarkable  for  good  sense,  with  a  tenacious  memory,  and 
pleasant  command  of  her  native  English  3  she  was  one  of 
the  few  gifted  elders  who  can  really  help  a  later  generation 
to  realize  the  life  of  older  times.  Dear  old  saint !  she  soon 
left  her  earthly  paradise.  Not  long  after  an  interesting  chat 
with  her,  in  which  she  seemed  more  at  home  with  Wesley 
and  Romaine  than  with  the  visible  things  of  my  own 
generation,  she  was  called  for  from  above.  She  had  lived 
nearly  a  century ;  but  her  mind  was  as  clear  as  an  evening  in 
spring.  To  her  faith,  unseen  things  were  visible  realities. 
One  who  sat  quietly  in  her  chamber  could  hear  her  whisper- 
ing to  her  Saviour  with  holy  familiarity.  "  It  was,"  she 
said,  "as  if  He  talked  with  me."  And  then  as  she  lay 
murmuring  a  song  in  sweet  undertones,  it  was  asked, 
"  What  are  you  singing — shall  I  join  you  ?*'  "  I  was  sing- 
ing," said  she, — 

"  When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan, 
Bid  my  anxious  fears  subside; 
Death  of  death,  and  hell's  destruction, 
Land  me  safe  on  Canaan's  side : 

Songs  of  praises 
I  will  ever  give  to  Thee  if* 

Her  love  was  perfect.  Her  tuneful  spirit  caught  a  higher 
strain,  and  took  its  part  in  the  harmonies  of  Paradise. 

The  old  saint's  last  song  on  earth  was  the  closing  verse  of 
William  Williams's  beautiful  hymn,  as  rendered  in  English — 


CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  J  77 

Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jehovah  ! 

Pilgrim  through  this  barren  land  ; 
I  am  weak,  but  Thou  art  mighty, 

Hold  me  with  Thy  powerful  hand  ; 
Bread  of  heaven, 

Feed  me  till  I  want  no  more. 

Open  Thou  the  crystal  fountain, 

Whence  the  healing  streams  do  flow  : 
Let  the  fiery,  cloudy  pillar 

Lead  me  all  my  journey  through. 
Strong  Deliverer, 

Be  Thou  still  my  strength  and  shield. 

When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan, 

Bid  my  anxious  fears  subside  ; 
Death  of  death,  and  hell's  destruction, 

Land  me  safe  on  Canaan's  side : 
Songs  of  praises 

I  will  ever  give  to  Thee. 

Williams  has  been  called  "  the  last  Lyric  poet  of  South 
Wales,"  in  that  the  utterances  of  his  music  were  among  the 
last  pure,  or  comparatively  incorrupt,  specimens  of  native 
Welsh  song.  In  his  "  Hosannah  to  the  Son  of  David," 
"  Gloria  in  Excelsis,"  and  other  pieces,  much  poetic  origin- 
ality and  force  are  apparent,  even  where  to  an  English  ear 
there  may  be  a  lack  of  harmony.  The  poet  is  deeply 
spiritual,  warmly  devout,  and  has  genius  which  sometimes 
flashes  and  glows.  His  hymns  are  often  impassioned,  and 
must  always  be  useful  and  popular  as  aids  to  devotion.  The 
poet  was  born  in  Carmarthenshire  in  1717,  and  was  at  first 
educated  for  the  medical  profession  5  but  his  deep  and 
alarming  convictions  of  sin,  and  the  jubilant  sense  of  spiritual 
deliverance  which  followed,  resulted  in  his  consecration  to  the 
work  of  an  evangelist.  He  was  ordained  a  Deacon  in  the 
Church  of  England ;  but  being  refused  Priest's  orders,  he 
was  persuaded  by  Whitfield  and  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon 
to  become  an  itinerant  minister  among  the  Calvanistic 
Methodists.  He  was  among  the  hero  pioneers  of  Methodism 
in  Wales.  For  just  forty-five  years  he  travelled  forty  or  fifty 
miles  a  week  ;  zealously  preaching,  praying,  and  hymning  it 
up  and  down  among  his  countrymen.  His  last  illness 
resulted  from  intense  study,  while  preparing  a  volume  on 

N 


1/8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  A  View  of  the  Kingdom  of  Christ.''  When  speech  failed, 
his  inward  Heaven  was  still  apparent.  He  had  a  joyful 
finish  in  the  year  1791.  As  a  preacher,  he  was  a  truly 
primitive  Methodist  itinerant  •  and  as  a  hymnist,  he  may  be 
properly  classed  among  the  early  Methodist  clerical  song- 
masters.  Indeed,  among  all  the  early  Methodist  poets,  no 
one  more  deeply  breathed  the  true  missionary  spirit,  or  more 
happily  anticipated  the  missionary  action  and  success  of 
Methodism,  than  did  "William  Williams  in  his  favourite 
hymn — 

O'er  the  gloomy  hills  of  darkness, 

Look,  my  soul,  be  still,  and  gaze : 
All  the  promises  do  travail 

With  a  glorious  day  of  grace : 
Blessed  jubilee ! 

Let  thy  glorious  morning  dawn. 

Let  the  Indian,  let  the  Negro, 

Let  the  rude  barbarian  see 
That  divine  and  glorious  conquest 

Once  obtained  on  Calvary  : 
Let  the  Gospel 

Loud  resound  from  pole  to  pole. 

Kingdoms  wide,  that  sit  in  darkness, 
Grant  them,  Lord,  Thy  glorious  light 

And,  from  eastern  coast  to  western, 
May  the  morning  chase  the  night ; 

And  Redemption, 
Freely  purchased,  win  the  day. 

May  the  glorious  day  approaching, 

On  their  grossest  darkness  dawn  ; 
And  the  everlasting  Gospel 

Spread  abroad  Thy  holy  Name, 
O'er  the  borders 

Of  the  great  Immanuel's  land. 

Fly  abroad,  thou  mighty  Gospel, 

Win  and  conquer,  never  cease ; 
May  thy  lasting  wide  dominion 

Multiply  and  still  increase  : 
Sway  Thy  sceptre, 

Saviour,  all  the  world  around. 


MORE   CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  I  79 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MORE     CLERICAL    SONG-MASTERS. 

Obedient  to  His  Father's  will 

He  came — He  lived — He  died  ; 
And  gratulating  voices  still 

Before  and  after  cried — 
From  ages  past  descends  the  lay 

To  ages  yet  to  be, 
Till  far  its  echoes  roll  away 

Into  eternity. 


HILE  the  trained  staff  of  College  Methodists 
went  out  from  Oxford,  distributing  themselves 
hither  and  thither,  according  to  their  several 
gifts,  each  in  his  own  line,  and  all  with  a  holy 
purpose,  every  tuneful  genius  exercising  his  talent 
and  all  singing  to  the  same  Divine  Name,  they  were  met 
almost  at  every  turn  by  auxiliary  forces  coming  from  out- 
lying parishes  of  the  land,  prepared,  amidst  their  parochal 
duties,  by  the  same  awakening  and  sanctifying  spirit,  for 
aiding  in  the  diffusion  of  Gospel  truth  and  grace.  Some  of 
them  were  tuneful  souls  j  and  "every  one"  of  these  "  had  a 
psalm,"  as  well  as  a  "doctrine,"  and  a  "tongue."  It  seemed 
as  if,  from  every  point,  God  had  chosen  evangelists  who  could 
be  song-masters  as  well  as  preachers.  The  whole  land  was 
to  be  taught  to  sing  as  well  as  to  watch  and  pray.  One  of 
the  early  poetic  companions  of  the  Wesleys  was  in  the 
Methodist  Chapel  in  London  one  evening  when  John  Wesley 
was  preaching.  The  preacher  saw  him,  and,  without  asking- 
consent,  announced  that  he  would  preach  there  on  the  next 
morning  at  five  o'clock.  Wesley  had  long  wished  to  hear 
him  preach,  and  now  he  thought  he  had  secured  an  oppor- 


]8o  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

tunity.  The  preacher,  thus  announced,  would  not  say  nay, 
lest  he  might  disturb  the  public  worship  ;  and  because,  too, 
he  could  not  well  seem  to  oppose  Mr.  Wesley's  wish.  At 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  was  in  the  pulpit,  believing,  of 
course,  that  Wesley  would  be  somewhere  among  his  hearers. 
After  singing  and  prayer,  he  said  that  as  he  had  been  called 
before  them  contrary  to  his  own  wish,  his  consent  to  preach 
never  having  been  asked,  and  that  as  he  had  done  violence  to 
his  own  feelings  in  deference  to  Mr.  Wesley,  and  was  now 
expected  to  preach,  weak  and  inadequate,  and  unprepared  as 
he  was,  he  should  give  them  the  best  sermon  that  ever  had 
been  delivered.  Then  opening  the  Bible,  he  read  our 
Lord's  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  and  without  a  single  word  of 
his  own  in  the  way  of  note  or  comment,  he  closed  the  ser- 
vice with  singing  and  prayer.  The  effect  was  deeply 
impressive.  This  was  Edward  Perronet,  the  brother  of 
Charles,  and  the  son  of  the  Reverend  Vincent  Perronet  of 
Shoreham,  between  whose  family  and  the  Wesleys  there 
were  close  bonds  of  Christian  affection. 

u  Mr.  Perronet,"  says  Charles  Wesley,  in  a  letter  to  a 
friend,  "  joins  in  hearty  love  and  thanks  for  your  kind  con- 
cern for  him.  He  grows  apace,  is  bold  as  a  lion,  meek  as  a 
lamb,  and  begins  to  speak  in  this  Name  to  the  hearts  of 
sinners."  A  proof  of  his  boldness  and  meekness  in  the 
service  of  his  Divine  Master  was  seen  on  October  15th, 
1746.  "  It  was  past  eight,"  says  Charles  Wesley,  "when 
we  came  to  Penkridge.  .  .  .  We  were  hardly  set  down  when 
the  sons  of  Belial  beset  the  house,  and  beat  at  the  door.  I 
ordered  it  to  be  set  open,  and  immediately  they  rilled  the 
house.  I  sat  still  in  the  midst  of  them  for  half  an  hour. 
Edward  Perronet  I  was  a  little  concerned  for,  lest  such 
rough  treatment  at  his  first  setting  out  should  daunt  him ; 
but  he  abounded  in  valour,  and  was  for  reasoning  with  the 
wild  beasts  before  they  had  spent  any  of  their  violence.  He 
got  a  deal  of  abuse  thereby,  and  not  a  little  dirt,  both  which 
he  took  very  patiently."  A  week  after  this  the  same  journal 
records,    "  I  set   out   with   Edwrard    Perronet,   and   reached 


MORE   CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  l8l 

Newcastle  by  Saturday  noon.  On  Sunday  my  companion 
was  taken  ill  of  a  fever.  We  prayed  for  him  in  strong  faith, 
nothing  doubting.  Monday  and  Tuesday  he  grew  worse 
and  worse.  On  Wednesday  the  small-pox  appeared ;  a 
favourable  sort.  Yet  on  Thursday  evening  we  were  much 
alarmed  by  the  great  pain  and  danger  he  was  in.  We  had 
recourse  to  our  never-failing  remedy,  and  received  a  most 
remarkable  answer  to  our  prayer.  The  great  means  of  his 
recovery  was  the  prayer  of  faith.  A  fortnight  from  this 
recovery,  I  was  sensible,"  says  Wesley,  "  of  the  hard  frost 
in  riding  to  Burnup  Field  j  but  did  not  feel  it  while  calling 
a  crowd  of  sinners  to  repentance.  At  my  return  I  found 
Edward  Perronet  rejoicing  in  the  love  of  God."  This  cheer- 
ful spirit  of  the  young  poetic  evangelist  was  kept  up,  for  his 
Methodist  friend  and  companion  in  travel  put  a  jotting  in  his 
note-book  about  three  years  afterwards,  "  I  set  out  for 
London  with  my  brother  and  Ned  Perronet.  We  were  in 
perils  of  robbers,  who  were  abroad,  and  had  robbed  many  the 
night  before.  We  commended  ourselves  to  God,  and  rode 
over  the  heath  singing."  The  happy  trio  could,  each  and 
all,  write  hymns  as  well  as  sing  them.  Perronet's  poetic 
talent  was  faithfully  consecrated  to  his  Divine  Master's 
service,  and  was  so  exercised  as  to  furnish  holy  excitement 
to  a  tuneful  adoration  of  the  glorified  Redeemer  from  every 
following  generation  of  spiritual  Christians. 

About  forty  years  ago,  William  Dawson,  a  Methodist 
local  preacher,  a  farmer,  but  an  original  genius,  and  striking 
and  popular  speaker,  was  preaching  in  London  on  the  Divine 
offices  of  Christ.  After  setting  Him  forth  as  the  great  Teacher 
and  Priest,  he  showed  Him  in  His  glory  as  the  King  of 
Saints.  He  proclaimed  Him  as  King  in  His  own  right,  and 
then  proceeded  to  the  coronation.  His  ideas  were  borrowed 
from  scenes  familiar  to  his  hearers.  The  immense  procession 
was  marshalled.  Then  it  moved  towards  the  grand  temple 
to  place  the  insignia  of  royalty  upon  the  King  of  the  universe. 
So  vividly  was  all  this  depicted,  that  those  who  listened 
thought  they  were  gazing  upon  the  long  line  of  patriarchs. 


J  82  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

kings,  prophets,  apostles,  martyrs,  and  confessors  of  every  age 
and  clime.  They  saw  the  great  temple  rilled  ;  and  the  grand 
and  solemn  act  of  coronation  was  about  to  be  performed.  By 
this  time  the  congregation  was  wrought  up  to  the  highest 
pitch  of  excitement,  and  while  expecting  to  hear  the  pealing 
anthem  rise  from  the  vast  assembly  upon  which  they  seemed 
to  gaze,  the  preacher  lifted  up  his  voice  and  sang — 

All  hail  the  power  of  Jesu's  name! 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 

To  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

The  effect  was  overwhelming.  The  crowd  sprang  to  their 
feet,  and  sang  the  hymn  with  a  feeling  and  a  power  which 
seemed  to  swell  higher  and  higher  at  every  verse.  It  was  a 
jubilant  multitude  paying  harmonious  homage  to  their 
Sovereign  Lord  and  Saviour. 

Their  hymn  was  that  which  had  first  appeared  without  a 
name  in  the  "  Gospel  Magazine  "  during  1780,  and  five  years 
afterwards  was  known  to  be  Edward  Perronet's.  A  volume 
of  "  Occasional  Verses,  Moral  and  Sacred,"  had  been  issued. 
The  poet  acknowledged  this  volume  as  his  own,  though  it 
had  no  author's  name.  Among  the  "  occasional  verses  "  was 
the  well-known  spirited  and  inspiriting  hymn  in  its  original 
form — 

All  hail  the  power  of  Jesu's  name  ! 

Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem, 
To  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Let  high-born  seraphs  tune  the  lyre, 

And  as  they  tune  it,  fall 
Before  His  face  who  tunes  their  choir, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Crown  Him,  ye  morning  stars  of  light, 

Who  fixed  this  floating  ball ; 
Now  hail  the  strength  of  Israel's  might, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Crown  Him,  ye  martyrs  of  your  God, 

Who  from  His  altar  call : 
Extol  the  stem  of  Jesse's  rod, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 


MORE  CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  J  3,3 

Ye  seed  of  Israel's  chosen  race, 

Ye  ransom'd  of  the  fall, 
Hail  Him  who  saves  you  by  His  grace, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Hail  Him,  ye  heirs  of  David's  lins, 
Whom  David  Lord  did  call, 
The  God  incarnate,  Man  divine, 
And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Sinners,  whose  love  can  ne'er  forget 

The  wormwood  and  the  gall, 
Go,  spread  your  trophies  at  His  feet, 

And  crown  Him  Lord  of  all ! 

Let  every  tribe  and  every  tongue 

That  bound  creation's  call, 
Now  shout  in  universal  song, 

The  crowned  Lord  of  all. 

Perronet  was  for  a  time  associated  with  the  Wesleys.  His 
doctrinal  views  subsequently  became  more  accordant  with 
those  of  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon ;  and  in  connection 
with  her  society  he  laboured  at  Canterbury,  Norwich,  and 
other  places,  with  zeal  and  success.  His  notions  respecting 
the  Church  of  England,  by  and  by,  became  such  as  he  ex- 
pressed in  an  anonymous  poem  called  "The  Mitre,"  said  to 
be  one  of  the  most  cutting  satires  on  the  Established  Church 
that  was  ever  written.  It  was  suppressed,  after  it  was 
in  print,  by  the  influence  of  John  Wesley,  it  is  thought, 
though  he  himself,  in  later  life,  said,  "  For  forty  years  I  have 
been  in  doubts  concerning  that  question,  '  What  obedience  is 
due  to  heathenish  priests  and  mitred  infidels?'"  Charles 
Wesley  was  shocked  at  the  poem,  and  declared  it  to  be  lack- 
ing in  wit,  and  of  insufferable  dulness ;  but  his  feeling  as  a 
churchman  may  have  dimmed  his  sight  as  a  critic.  Perronet 
is  severe.  But,  in  his  day,  there  was  too  much  to  provoke 
his  satirical  genius.  He  saw  what  he  thought  to  be  reason 
for    saying   of   the   system   against  which  he  launched   his 

satire — 

To  what  compare  thy  fertile  womb  ? 
A  den,  a  cavern,  or  the  tomb  ? 

Why  not  compare  to  all  ? 
Dark,  hollow,  teeming,  large,  and  deep ; 
Or  wild,  or  dead,  or  fast  asleep ; 

And  stubborn  as  a  wall. 


384  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Or  like  a  mart,  high  vending  place, 
Open  for  every  age  and  face 

Who  loiter,  steal,  or  range; 
Or  like  the  common  road  or  street, 
Where  knaves,  as  honest,  walk  or  meet, 

As  Albion's  grand  Exchange. 

In  short,  thou'rt  like  a  common  sewer, 
Filling  and  emptying — never  pure 

From  pride,  or  pomp,  or  sin  ; 
That  (speak  they  truth  who  say  they  know), 
With  all  thy  scavengers  can  do, 

They  cannot  keep  thee  clean. 

And  perhaps  some  may  think  that  there  is  appropriateness 

to  modern  development  as  well  as  sharp  poetic  point  in  the 

prophetic  part  of  his  effusion — 

Permit  me  to  foretell  thy  doom, 
(Which  has  in  part  been  that  of  Rome,) 

Thou  wilt  be  clean  abhorred ; 
The  nation  will  expose  thy  shame, 
Cast  out  as  dung  thy  putrid  name, 

The  vengeance  of  the  Lord  ! 

For  while  her  orders  and  her  rules 
Are  made  the  standard  of  thy  schools, 

And  all  besides  of  blame, 
What  other  portion  canst  thou  hope, 
But  that  the  wise  should  give  thee  up, 

Her  ape — without  her  name  t 

Perronet's  feeling  towards  the  Episcopal  Church  was  so 
far  from  being  agreeable  to  Lady  Huntingdon  that  his  con- 
nection with  her  was  severed,  and  he  finished  his  days  as 
the  minister  of  a  dissenting  congregation.  His  mortal  course 
came  to  an  end  in  Canterbury,  January  2nd,  1792,  and  he 
departed  crying,  "  Glory  to  God  in  the  height  of  His  divinity ! 
Glory  to  God  in  the  depth  of  His  humanity !  Glory  to  God 
in  His  all-sufficiency  !  And  into  His  hands  I  commend  my 
spirit !  " 

The  contemporary  song-masters  of  early  Methodism  were 
so  distributed  by  their  Divine  Master  over  the  field,  that  to 
pass  from  the  place  where  one  sang  was  soon  to  come  within 
the  sound  of  another's  voice. 

One  day,  in  the  course  of  December  1776,  two  old  friends 
met  in  the  vicarage  of  a  parish  in  Bedfordshire,  not  having 


MORE   CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  I  85 

seen  each  other  for  sixteen  years.  One  was  a  tall  man,  lusty, 
but  well-formed  and  of  good  bearing,  agreeable,  and  some- 
what majestic,  with  a  face  in  which  gravity,  thoughtfulness, 
kindness,  jollity,  and  fun  were  curiously  blended  into 
consistent  unison  j  while  in  his  address  there  was  a 
mingling  of  solemnity,  ease,  and  tenderness.  The  other  had 
something  more  of  the  ethereal  about  him.  His  person  was 
striking.     He  was  evidently  one  whose  looks  were  often 

Commercing  with  the  skies, 
His  rapt  soul  sitting  in  his  eyes. 

Deep  thought,  language,  philosophy,  divinity,  and  holy 
imagination  seemed  to  speak  in  his  features j  while  his  face 
appeared  to  give  forth  reflections  of  a  spiritual  world.  There 
was  sweetness  even  in  his  manifest  languor ;  and,  indeed,  to 
see  him  and  to  hear  his  voice  was  to  receive  an  impression 
which  disposed  the  soul  to  divine  pursuits.  The  last  time 
these  two  friends  met,  they  were  alike  in  their  theological 
views ;  now  they  came  together  knowing  that  they  had 
become  dissimilar.  But  doctrinal  notions  were  as  nothing 
before  the  warmth  of  their  mutual  love.  Each  saluted  the 
other  as  brother  j  and  they  embraced  with  tears  of  brotherly 
affection.  "We  left  them  together,"  says  an  eye-witness, 
"  for  two  hours,  and  when  we  returned  we  found  them  still 
consulting  how  they  might  be  useful  to  the  Church  of  Christ. 
They  were  now  to  part.  The  worn  and  languid  one  showed 
tokens  of  decay,  and  as  he  did  not  expect  to  see  the  other 
again,  it  was  the  more  solemn.  They  invited  us  who  were 
present,  and  also  called  in  the  servants,  to  join  them  in  a  part- 
ing address  to  the  throne  of  grace.  The  invalid  prayed 
fervently  and  affectionately,  and  having  concluded,  all  were 
about  to  rise  from  their  knees,  when  the  other  began  to  pray 
in  language  equally  warm  and  loving  with  that  of  his  dear 
brother.  Their  parting  was  such  as  might  be  expected  after 
such  a  meeting.  Their  conduct  reminds  me  of  the  saying  of 
the  persecutors  of  the  primitive  Christians — '  See  how  these 
Christians  love  one  another  ! '  " 


1 86 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


This  parting  scene  was  in  the  vicarage  of  Everton,  and  the 
two  friends  were  the  vicar  himself,  John  Berridge,  and  John 
Fletcher  of  Madeley.  When  the  loving  vicar  saw  his  saintly 
friend  depart,  never,  probably,  to  enter  that  house  of  prayer 
again,  he  might  have  had  thoughts  and  feelings  like  those 
which  he  threw  into  devout  verse  on  the  final  departure  of 
Whitfield,  another  of  his  evangelical  co-workers.  His  hymn 
was  founded  on  the  Psalmist's  prayer,  "  Help,  Lord  j  for  the 
godly  man   ceaseth ;    for  the  faithful  fail  from  among  the 

children  of  men." 

Send  help,  O  Lord,  we  pray, 

And  Thy  own  Gospel  bless  ; 

For  godly  men  decay, 

And  faithful  pastors  cease ; 
The  righteous  are  removed  from  home, 
And  scorners  rise  up  in  their  room. 

While  Satan's  troops  are  bold, 

And  thrive  in  number  too, 

The  flocks  in  Jesu's  fold 

Are  growing  lank  and  few. 
Old  sheep  are  moving  off  each  year, 
And  few  lambs  in  the  fold  appear. 

Old  shepherds,  too,  retire, 

Who  gather'd  flocks  below, 

And  young  ones  catch  no  fire, 

Or  worldly  prudent  grow  ; 
Few  run  with  trumpets  in  their  hand, 
To  sound  alarms  by  sea  and  land. 

O  Lord,  stir  up  Thy  power, 

To  make  the  Gospel  spread ; 

And  thrust  out  preachers  more, 

With  voice  to  raise  the  dead, 
With  feet  to  run  where  Thou  dost  call, 
With  faith  to  fight  and  conquer  all. 

The  flocks  that  long  have  dwelt 

Around  fair  Sion's  hill, 

And  Thy  sweet  grace  have  felt, 

Uphold  and  feed  them  still; 
But  fresh  folds  build  up  everywhere, 
And  plenteously  Thy  truth  declare. 

As  one  Elijah  dies, 

True  prophet  of  the  Lord, 

Let  some  Elisha  rise 

To  blaze  the  Gospel  Word  ; 
And  fast  as  sheep  to  Jesus  go 
May  lambs  recruit  his  folds  below. 


MORE   CLERICAL   SONG-MASTERS.  1 8/ 

The  Wesleys  and  their  Oxford  companions  had  gone  out 
from  college,  and  were  in  their  various  positions,  working 
out  their  Christian  plans,  when  Berridge,  at  the  age  of  nine- 
teen, began  his  course  of  preparation  for  his  great  life-task 
at  Clare  Hall,  Cambridge.  Born  at  Kingston  in  Nottingham- 
shire, the  son  of  a  farmer,  he  was  destined  by  his  father  to 
succeed  him  on  the  soil.  But  John  had  no  capacity  for 
calculating  the  worth  of  bullocks,  and  the  disappointed  parent 
declared  he  should  go  to  college  "  to  be  a  light  to  the 
Gentiles."  The  example  of  a  pious  boy-neighbour,  and  the 
religious  influence  of  a  tailor,  sometimes  employed  in  the 
house,  led  him  to  take  a  religious  turn.  With  a  mind  well 
trained  and  largely  furnished,  he  served  as  a  curate  for  some 
years,  and  in  175^5  was  admitted  to  the  vicarage  of  Everton. 
After  a  year  or  two  of  unsatisfactory  labour,  he  was  led  to  a 
clear  discovery  of  the  way  of  salvation  by  faith ;  and  his 
ministry  at  once  became  living  and  fruitful.  The  first  fruits 
were  characteristic.  One  of  his  flock  came  to  inquire  for 
him.  "  Well,  Sarah  ?  "  said  he.  "  Well !  "  was  the  reply ; 
"well,  not  so  well,  I  fear!"  "  Why,  what's  the  matter, 
Sarah  ?  "  "  Matter  ?  why  I  don't  know  what's  the  matter. 
These  new  sermoTis  !  I  find  we  are  all  to  be  lost  now  3  I  can 
neither  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep  ;  I  don't  know  what's  to  become 
of  me  !  "  The  number  of  such  inquirers  rapidly  increased. 
Mr.  Hicks,  a  neighbouring  clergyman,  was  one  of  his 
converts.  At  length  Wesley  and  the  vicar  met ;  and  an 
alliance  was  formed. 

"1  was  informed,"  says  John  Wesley,  in  November, 
1758,  "  that  Mr.  Berridge  desired  I  would  come  to  him  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  set  out  for  Everton.  Mr.  B.  was  just 
taking  horse;  I  rode  on  with  him,  and  in  the  evening 
preached  at  Wrestlingworth,  in  a  large  church  well-filled 
with  serious  hearers.     We  lodged  at  Mr.  Hicks's,  the  vicar, 

a  witness  of  the  faith  which  once  he  persecuted 

But  a  few  months  ago  Mr.  Berridge  was  thoroughly  con- 
vinced that  *  by  grace  '  we  are  '  saved,  through  faith.' 
Immediately  he  began  to  proclaim  aloud  the  redemption  that 


i88 


THE    POETS  OF  METHODISM. 


is  in  Christ  Jesus ;  and  God  confirmed  His  own  word 
exactly  as  He  did  at  Bristol,  in  the  beginning,  by  working 
repentance  and  faith  in  the  hearers,  and  with  the  same 
violent  outward  symptoms."  The  wonderful  effects  of 
Berridge's  preaching  are  described  by  Wesley,  who  was  an 
eye-witness.  On  Saturday  14th  of  July,  1749,  he  says: 
"  While  Mr.  B.  preached  in  the  church,  I  stood  with  many  in 
the  churchyard  to  make  room  for  those  who  came  from  far; 
therefore  I  saw  little,  but  heard  the  agonizing  of  many 
panting  and  gasping  after  eternal  life.  In  the  afternoon 
Mr.  B.  was  constrained,  by  the  multitude  of  people,  to  come 
out  of  the  church,  and  preach  in  his  own  close.  Some  of 
those  who  were  here  pricked  to  the  heart  were  affected  in 
an  astonishing  manner.  The  first  man  I  saw  wounded 
would  have  dropped,  but  others,  catching  him  in  their  arms, 
did,  indeed,  prop  him  up,  but  were  so  far  from  keeping  him 
still  that  he  caused  all  of  them  to  totter  and  tremble.  His 
own  shaking  exceeded  that  of  a  cloth  in  the  wind.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  Lord  came  upon  him  like  a  giant,  taking 
him  by  the  neck,  and  shaking  all  his  bones  in  pieces.  One 
woman  tore  up  the  ground  with  her  hands,  filling  them  with 
dust,  and  with  the  hard  trodden  grass,  on  which  I  saw  her 
lie,  with  her  hands  clenched,  as  one  dead,  when  the  multitude 
dispersed.  Another  roared  and  screamed  in  a  more  dread- 
ful agony  than  ever  I  heard  before.  I  omitted  the  rejoicing 
of  believers,  because  of  their  number  and  the  frequency 
thereof,  though  the  manner  was  strange ;  some  of  them 
being  quite  overpowered  with  Divine  love,  and  only  showing 
enough  of  natural  life  to  let  us  know  they  were  overwhelmed 
with  joy  and  life  eternal." 

Scenes  like  these  opened  everywhere  in  rapid  succession. 
Under  the  ministry  of  Berridge's  neighbour,  Hicks,  and 
himself,  about  four  thousand  souls  were  brought  to  seek 
God  in  the  space  of  twelve  months.  He  entered  now  on  a 
course  of  itinerancy.  He  went  through  all  the  surrounding 
counties ;  preached  ten  or  twelve  sermons  every  week, 
travelling  on  horseback   in    that   time   about   one   hundred 


MORE  CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  189 

miles.     It  was  in  the  spirit  of  this  missionary  work   that  he 
wrote  his  hymn  on  "  Thy  kingdom  come  :" — • 

O  Father,  let  Thy  kingdom  come, 

Thy  kingdom  built  on  love  and  grace  ; 
In  every  province  give  it  room, 

In  every  heart  afford  it  place ; 
The  earth  is  Thine,  set  up  Thy  throne, 
And  claim  the  kingdoms  as  Thine  own. 

Still  nature's  horrid  darkness  reigns, 

And  sinners  scorn  the  check  of  fear, 
Still  Satan  holds  the  heart  in  chains, 

Where  Jesu's  messengers  appear  ; 
We  pray  that  Christ  may  rise  and  bless 
The  world  with  truth  and  righteousness. 

Bid  war  and  wild  ambition  cease, 

And  man  no  more  a  monster  prove  ; 
Fill  up  his  breast  with  heavenly  peace, 

And  warm  it  well  with  heavenly  love  ; 
To  Jesus  bid  the  people  go, 
And  Satan's  kingdom  overthrow. 

More  labourers  in  the  vineyard  send, 

And  pour  Thine  unction  on  them  all ; 
Give  them  a  voice  to  shake  and  bend 

The  mountains  high  and  cedars  tall ; 
That  flocks  of  sinners,  young  and  old, 
May  shelter  seek  in  Jesu's  fold. 

Berridge  was  thoroughly  adapted  for  his  work.     Robust  in 

form  and  constitution,  firm  and  undaunted  in  spirit,  fearless 

of  men,  unwavering  in  faith,  with  a  mind  well  furnished,  a 

heart  glowing  with  zeal,  a  voice  loud  and  strong,  and  perfectly 

under  command,  with  never-failing  power  of  expression,  he 

was  verily  a  "son  of  thunder."     At  times,  when  he  spoke, 

Sinai  seemed  to  thunder  and  flash  j    while  that  same  voice 

would  become  tremulous  and  melting  while  he  wept  over 

those  to  whom  he  preached  a   Saviour.     Persecution  of  no 

kind   checked    him ;    though,   for   nearly   thirty   years,    the 

enemies  of  truth  would  know  him  by  no  other  title  than 

"The  Old  Devil."     His  humility  was  deep  and  pure.     The 

expression  of  his  feelings  respecting  himself  as  an  itinerant 

was  sometimes  in  amusing  accordance  with  his  character.  In 

a  letter  to  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon,  he  says,  "  I  am  one 

of  those  strange  folks  who  set  up  for  journeymen  without 

knowing  their  business,  and  offer  many  precious  wares  to  sale 


igo  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

without  understanding  their  full  value.  I  have  got  a  Master, 
too,  a  most  extraordinary  person,  whom  I  am  supposed  to  be 
well  acquainted  with,"  because  He  employs  me  as  a  riding 
pedlar  to  serve  nearly  forty  shops  in  the  country,  besides 
my  own  parish ;  yet  I  know  much  less  of  my  Master  than  I 
do  of  His  wares."  He  was  once  on  his  way  to  a  visitation 
when  a  strange  clergyman  joined  him.  After  some  chat,  the 
stranger  said,  "Do  you  know  one  Berridge  in  these  parts?  he 
is  a  very  troublesome,  good-for-nothing  fellow,  they  tell  me." 
"  Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  Berridge,  "  and  I  assure  you  that 
one  .half  his  wickedness  has  not  been  told  you."  The 
stranger  was  surprised,  and  begged  to  have  the  wicked  fellow 
pointed  out  to  him  when  they  came  to  the  church.  Other 
talk  followed,  until  they  arrived  at  the  place  of  meeting. 
Berridge's  companion  then  reminded  him  of  his  promise  to 
show  him  this  Berridge.  "  My  dear  sir,"  said  he,  "I  am 
John  Berridge."  "  Is  it  possible  r  "  cried  the  other  ;  "  and 
can  you  forgive  me  ?  Will  you  honour  me  with  your  acquaint- 
ance ?  Will  you  admit  me  to  your  house  ?  "  "  Yes,"  was  the 
old  man"s  reply,  "and  to  my  heart." 

The  true  simplicity  of  the  hymnist's  character,  and  his 
genuine  lowliness  of  his  mind,  are  put  forth  in  his  best  hymn 
style  in  his  verses  on  "  My  Soul  is  even  as  a  Weaned  Child." 

Dear  Jesus,  cast  a  look  on  me, 

I  come  with  simplest  prayer  to  Thee, 

And  ask  to  be  a  child  ; 
Weary  of  what  belongs  to  man, 
I  long  to  be  as  I  began, 

Infantly  meek  and  mild. 

No  wild  ambition  I  would  have, 
No  worldly  grandeur  I  would  crave, 

But  sit  me  down  content ; 
Content  with  what  I  do  receive, 
And  cheerful  praises  learn  to  give, 

For  all  things  freely  sent. 

Well  weaned  from  the  world  below, 
Its  pining  care  and  gewgaw  show, 

Its  joy  and  hope  forlorn  ; 
My  soul  would  step,  a  stranger,  forth, 
And,  smit  with  Jesus'  grace  and  worth, 

Repose  on  Him  alone. 


MORE   CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  JQJ 

I  would  love  Him  with  all  my  heart, 
And  all  my  secret  thought  impart, 

My  grief,  and  joy,  and  fear ; 
And  while  the  pilgrim  life  shall  last, 
My  soul  would  on  the  Lord  be  cast, 

In  sweet  believing  prayer. 
His  presence  I  would  have  each  day, 
And  hear  Him  talking  by  the  way 

Of  love,  and  truth,  and  grace  ; 
And  when  He  speaks  and  gives  a  smile, 
My  soul  shall  listen  all  the  while, 

And  every  accent  bless. 

He  had  learnt  the  lesson  of  his  Lord's  active  service,  and 
then  was  called  to  the  suffering  which  was  necessary  to  com- 
plete his  character.  He  was  for  a  time  laid  aside  from  work  j 
and  it  was  during  this  trial  that  he  composed  the  hymns  con- 
tained in  his  volume  of  "  Sion's  Songs."  He  had  previously 
compiled  and  issued  a  collection  of  Divine  songs  designed 
chiefly  for  the  religious  societies  of  churchmen  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Everton.  It  contained  some  originals ;  "but," 
says  he,  "  I  was  not  wholly  satisfied  with  it.  The  bells 
indeed  had  been  chiefly  cast  in  a  celebrated  foundry,  and  in 
ringing  were  tuneable  enough,  none  more  so ;  but  a  clear 
Gospel  tone  was  not  found  in  them  all."  He  alludes  to  the 
hymns  of  the  Wesleys,  from  whose  doctrinal  notions,  once 
his  own,  he  had  now  somewhat  swerved.  "  Sion's  Songs,"  how- 
ever, were  Berridge's  own.  "  111  health,  some  years  past, 
having  kept  me  from  travelling  or  preaching,  I  took  up  the 
trade  of  hymn-making,  a  handicraft  much  followed  of  late, 
but  a  business  I  was  not  born  or  bred  to,  and  undertaken 
chiefly  to  keep  a  long  sickness  from  preying  on  my  spirits, 
and  to  make  tedious  nights  pass  over  smoothly.  Some  tinkling 
employment  was  wanted,  which  might  amuse  and  not  fatigue 
me."  He  wanted  "tinkling  employment,"  and  some  of  his 
hymns  are  certainly  curious  tinkling  productions ;  but  others 
are  more  worthy  of  a  man  who,  on  the  testimony  of  those 
who  knew  him  best,  "  possessed  a  strength  of  understanding, 
a  quickness  of  perception,  a  depth  of  penetration,  a  brilliancy 
of  fancy,  and  a  fund  of  prompt  wit,  beyond  most  men."  The 
peculiar  balance  of  humour  and  gravity  in  his  character  is 


192  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

seen  in  the  prayer  with  which  he  closes  the  preface  to  his 
hymn-book :  "  My  Saviour  and  my  God,  accept  this  mite  of 
love,  which  is  cast  into  Thy  treasury.  Give  it  a  blessing,  and 
it  shall  be  blessed.  What  is  water  in  the  hymns  turn  into 
wine ;  by  giving  them  a  charge  to  enliven  the  hearts  of  the 
children,  and  stir  up  the  wills  of  aliens  to  seek  Thy  salvation. 
Only  attend  them  with  an  unction  of  Thy  spirit,  and  what- 
ever be  the  hymns,  Thy  glory  shall  be  promoted  by  them. 
Amen." 

But  his  humour,  and  what  may  be  called  his  grave  waggery, 
often  found  vent  in  his  letters  and  in  his  intercourse  with 
friends.  He  was  never  married,  and  it  is  very  curious  to  find 
him  most  free  to  joke  and  be  serious  by  turns  on  the  question 
of  wedlock  in  his  epistles  to  the  Countess  of  Huntingdon. 

My  Lady, — Before  I  parted  with  honest  Glascott,  I  cautioned  him 
much  against  petticoat  snares.  He  had  burnt  his  wings  already ;  sure 
he  will  not  imitate  a  foolish  gnat,  and  hover  again  about  the  candle.  If 
he  should  fall  into  a  sleeping-lap,  he  will  soon  need  a  flannel  night-cap, 
and  a  rusty  chain  to  fix  him  down  like  a  Church  Bible  to  the  reading- 
desk.  No  trap  so  mischievous  to  the  field  preacher  as  wedlock,  and  it  is 
laid  for  him  at  every  corner.  Matrimony  has  quite  maimed  poor  Charles, 
and  might  have  spoiled  John  and  George,  if  a  wise  Master  had  not 
graciously  sent  them  a  brace  of  ferrets.  Dear  George  has  now  got  the 
liberty  again,  and  he  will  escape  well  if  he  is  not  caught  by  another 
tenter-hook.  Eight  or  nine  years  ago,  having  been  grievously  tormented 
with  housekeepers,  I  truly  had  thought  of  looking  out  for  a  Jezebel  for 
myself.  But  it  seemed  needful  to  ask  advice  of  the  Lord  ;  so  falling  down 
on  my  knees  before  a  table,  with  a  Bible  between  my  hands,  I  besought 
the  Lord  to  give  me  a  direction. 

The  first  sign  he  tells  us  was  not  satisfactory.  Another 
trial  brought  up  the  passage,  "Thou  shalt  not  take  thee  a 
wife,"  &c.  These  words  he  took,  as  he  says,  "not  only  as  a 
rule  of  direction,  but  as  a  promise  of  security,"  Thou  shalt  not 
take  a  wife,  that  is,  I  will  keep  thee  from  taking  one. 

In  his  sitting-room  at  Everton,  he  had  several  portraits  of 
pious  men  hanging  on  the  walls  in  small  frames ;  and  over 
the  mantel-piece  there  was  a  looking-glass  of  the  same  size 
in  a  similar  frame.  A  clergyman  who  paid  him  a  visit  for 
the  first  time  looked  at  the  pictures  one  after  another. 
"  That,"   said  Berridge,  "is  Calvin,   and  that  Luther 5  and 


MORE  CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  1 93 

that,"  pointing  to  the  glass  over  the  fireplace,  "  is  the  Devil !  " 
The  visitor  stepped  quickly  to  look  at  it,  and  saw  his  own 
face.  "  Is  it  not,"  cried  Berridge,  "  a  striking  likeness  of 
his  Satanic  majesty  ?  " 

Probably  he  sometimes  felt  that  he  was  treading  on 
snares  when  indulging  this  waggish  mood,  and  might  seem 
to  be  giving  himself  a  caution  and  a  check  in  his  hymn  on 
"  I  said  of  laughter,  it  is  mad ;  and  of  mirth,  what  good 
doeth  it  ?  " 

But,  oh,  thou  man  of  God, 

This  empty  mirth  beware  ; 
March  off,  and  quit  this  giggling  road  ; 

No  food  for  pilgrims  there. 

It  checks  the  Spirit's  aid, 

And  leaves  the  heart  forlorn, 
And  makes  them  look  as  Sampson  did, 

When  all  his  locks  were  shorn. 

May  Jesus  be  my  peace, 

And  make  up  all  my  joy  ; 
His  love  can  yield  me  serious  bliss, 

And  bliss  that  will  not  cloy. 

But  the  way  in  which  he  uses  his  faculty  of  merry  quaint  - 
ness  in  giving  sharp  point  to  moral  and  religious  truth  in  his 
"  Christian  World  Unmasked,"  and  in  his  epistolary  recom- 
mendation of  "Cheerful  Piety,"  gives  a  pleasant  impression 
of  consistency,  and  finely  balanced  intellect  and  affections. 
The  closing  verses  of  one  of  his  best  hymns  breathe  the 
spirit  in  which  he  waited  for  his  Lord's  coming — 

Leaning  on  Thy  loving  breast, 
Where  a  weary  soul  may  rest ; 
Feeling  well  the  peace  of  God, 
Flowing  from  Thy  precious  blood. 

In  this  posture  let  me  live, 
And  hosannas  daily  give  ; 
In  this  temper  let  me  die, 
And  hosannas  ever  cry. 

One  who  was  near  him  at  the  last,  said,  "  The  Lord  has 
enabled  you  to  fight  a  good  fight."  "  Blessed  be  His  name 
for  it,"  was  the  response.  "  Jesus  will  soon  call  you  up 
higher,"  it  was  said  again.   "Ay,  ay,  ay,"  he  cried,  "higher ! 

o 


'94 


THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 


higher  !  higher  !  Yes,  and  my  children,  too,  will  shout  and 
sing, '  Here  comes  our  father  ! '  '  This  was  his  last  voice 
on  earth.     He  "fell  asleep  in  Christ,"  January  22,  1793. 

How  difficult  it  is,  at  times,  to  prove  a  man's  identity. 
The  changes  wrought  in  him  and  his  surroundings  during  an 
interval  of  some  years'  absence,  render  it  hard  to  say 
whether  the  person  you  see  now  is  the  same  as  you  looked 
at  then.  A  difficulty  somewhat  analogous  to  this  occurs 
sometimes  in  fixing  the  authorship  of  a  hymn.  The  lapse 
of  a  few  years  only  since  the  death  of  the  author  so  mysti- 
fies his  claims,  as  to  make  it  by  no  means  easy  for  some 
people  to  be  sure  whether  the  hymn  was  written  by  him  or 
by  somebody  else.  So  it  seems  to  have  been  with  that 
widely-known  and  soul-kindling  hymn — 

Jesus,  Thy  blood  and  righteousness 
My  beauty  are,  my  glorious  dress. 

It  was  certainly  issued  by  the  Wesleys  among  their  "  Hymns 
and  Sacred  Poems,"  in  1740,  and  given  as  "from  the 
German  ; "  and  seems  to  have  been  a  rendering  of  one  of 
Count  Zinzendorfs  hymns  by  John  Wesley.  Nevertheless, 
it  has  subsequently  been  ascribed  to  John  Cennick,  whose 
Talent  and  taste  as  a  hymnist  are  placed  beyond  a  doubt  by 
compositions  which  are  certainly  his,  and  need  no  suste- 
nance from  doubtful  claims. 

"  To  me,"  says  an  old  psalm-singer,  "there  is  one  hymn 
which  is  always  associated  with  my  first  insight  into  a  happy 
future,  and  my  earliest  expressions  of  Christian  hope. 
Long  before  I  knew  who  wrote  it,  that  hymn,  whenever  I 
heard  it  sung,  used  to  melt  and  exhilarate  me  by  turns,  as  it 
excited  thoughts  of  going  up  amidst  brightening  multitudes 
and  choral  harmonies  to  meet  the  Saviour.  I  am  not  sure 
whether  it  was  the  hymn  alone  that  awakened  the  feelings 
I  speak  of.  The  music  of  the  finely  adapted  tune  may  have 
had  something  to  do  with  it  j  for  that  music  seems  even 
now  to  rise  within  me  in  harmony  with  the  thoughts,  rhyme, 
and  rhythm  of  the  verses.      However  that   may  be,  a  deep 


MORE   CLERICAL  SONG-MASTERS.  T05 

chord  is  always  touched  in   my  soul  when   I  read   or  hear 

John  Cennick's  spiritual  song — 

Thou  dear  Redeemer,  dying  Lamb  ! 

We  love  to  hear  of  Thee ; 
No  music's  like  Thy  charming  name, 
Nor  half  so  sweet  can  be. 

O  may  we  ever  hear  Thy  voice 

In  mercy  to  us  speak  ; 
And  in  our  Priest  we  will  rejoice, 

Thou  great  Melchisedek. 

Our  Jesus  shall  be  still  our  theme, 

While  in  this  world  we  stay ! 
We'll  sing  our  Jesu's  lovely  name, 

When  all  things  else  decay. 

When  we  appear  in  yonder  cloud, 

With  all  the  ransom'd  throng, 
Then  will  we  sing  more  sweet,  more  loud, 

And  Christ  shall  be  our  song. 

Cennick's  doctrinal  course  was  a  wavering  one  j  and  but 
for  the  soundness  of  his  conversion,  and  for  the  genuine 
groundwork  of  piety  in  his  heart,  it  might  have  been  un- 
happy. He  had  warmth,  fancy,  and  tunefulness  of  poetic 
spirit  as  a  hymnist ;  but  as  a  divine  he  lacked  discrimination, 
and  as  an  evangelist  his  judgment  was  not  always  sound. 
His  parents  were  Quakers  ;  though  he  soon  learnt  to  make 
hymns  and  to  sing  them.  He  was  taught  at  home  to  pray  if 
not  to  sing.     It  was  soon  seen  that  trade  was  not  his  calling. 

For  a  time,  he  showed  a  proneness  to  gaiety.  But  in  1735 
he  was  convinced  of  sin  while  walking  in  Cheapside  5  and 
at  once  his  vain  songs,  and  cards,  and  theatrical  amusements 
were  cast  aside.  Sometimes  he  wished  to  go  into  a  Popish 
monastery  to  spend  his  life  in  devout  retirement.  At  other 
times  he  would  fain  live  in  a  cave,  sleeping  on  fallen  leaves,, 
and  feeding  on  forest-fruits.  He  fasted  long  and  often,  and 
prayed  nine  times  every  day.  He  lived  in  fear  of  departed 
spirits ;  and  trembled  lest  he  should  meet  the  devil.  Dry 
bread  was  too  great  an  indulgence  for  such  a  sinner ;  and 
he  began  to  feed  on  potatoes,  acorns,  crabs,  and  grass ;  and 
often  wished  he  could  live  upon  roots  and  herbs.     He  would 


i$6 


THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 


have  been  a  distinguished  brother  of  the  Boskoi,  the  grass- 
eating  monks  in  the  fields  of  old  Mesopotamia.  But  he  was 
saved  from  all  this  by  the  manifested  peace  of  God  which  he 
received  on  September  6th,  1737.  His  course  was  now  one 
of  freedom  and  joy.  He  became  at  once  a  preacher  of  sal- 
vation through  faith  in  Christ.  His  public  Methodist  action 
began  in  association  with  the  Wesleys.  On  Friday,  March 
1739,  "I  came  to  Reading,"  says  John  Wesley,  "where  I 
found  a  young  man  who  had  in  some  measure  known  the 
powers  of  the  world  to  come.  I  spent  the  evening  with  him 
and  a  few  of  his  serious  friends,  and  it  pleased  God  much 
to  strengthen  and  comfort  them."  This  young  man  was 
Cennick.  He  worked  as  a  lay-helper  with  the  Wesleys 
nearly  two  years,  preaching  and  making  hymns.  Charles 
Wesley  sympathized  with  him  as  a  hymn  writer,  and  cor- 
rected his  verses  for  the  press.  Like  all  those  who  took 
an  active  part  in  early  Methodism,  he  had  experienced 
spiritual  conflict  in  the  first  pursuit  of  Christian  peace  j  and 
had  been  led  through  a  course  of  vain  efforts  into  the  great 
secret  of  salvation  by  faith  in  Christ  alone.  One  of  his 
best  hymns  may  be  taken  as  a  record  of  his  own  first  happy 
introduction  to  Jesus  as  "  the  way,  the  truth,  and  the 
life" — 

Jesus,  my  all,  to  heaven  is  gone ; 
He  whom  I  fix  my  hopes  upon  : 
His  track  I  see,  and  I'll  pursue 
The  narrow  way  till  Him  I  view. 

The  way  the  holy  prophets  went — 
The  road  that  leads  from  banishment — 
The  King's  highway  of  holiness — 
I'll  go ;  for  all  His  paths  are  peace. 

This  is  the  way  I  long  had  sought, 
And  mourned  because  I  found  it  not ; 
My  grief  and  burden  long  had  been 
Because  I  could  net  cease  from  sin. 

The  more  I  strove  against  its  power, 
I  sinned  and  stumbled  but  the  more ; 
Till  late  I  heard  my  Saviour  say, 
Come  hither,  soul,  I  am  the  way. 


MORE   CLERICAL   SONG-MASTERS.  I97 

Lo !  glad  I  come  !  and  Thou,  blest  Lamb, 
Wilt  now  receive  me  as  I  am  ! 
My  sinful  self  to  Thee  I  give  : 
Nothing  but  love  shall  I  receive. 

Then  will  I  tell  to  sinners  round 
What  a  dear  Saviour  I  have  found; 
I'll  point  to  Thy  redeeming  blood, 
And  say — Behold  !  the  way  to  God. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  young  hymning 
evangelist  began  to  show  tokens  of  change.  On  Nov.  4, 
1 740,  Charles  Wesley  writes  :  "  At  Kingswood,  while  I 
was  testifying  Christ  died  for  all,  Mr.  Cennick,  in  the 
hearing  of  many,  gave  me  the  lie.  I  calmly  told  him  after- 
wards, '  If  I  speak  not  the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus,  may  I 
decrease  and  you  increase.'  "  About  a  month  after  this,  John 
Wesley  had  to  share  with  his  brother  the  consequences  of 
Cennick's  changed  disposition.  He  preached  at  Kingswood 
on  the  afternoon  of  Tuesday,  December  16,  1740,  from 
"Let  patience  have  her  perfect  work;"  and  then  his  own 
patience  was  put  to  the  test.  "The  next  evening,"  says  he, 
"  Mr.  Cennick  came.  I  was  greatly  surprised  when  I  went 
to  receive  him,  as  usual,  with  open  arms,  to  observe  him 
quite  cold ;  so  that  a  stranger  would  have  judged  he  had 
scarce  ever  seen  me  before."  The  doctrinal  differences 
between  these  good  men  soon  became  associated  with  warm 
feeling,  until  the  spirited  young  hymnist  declared  that  while 
connected  with  the  Wesleys  he  was  "  in  the  midst  of  the 
plague  ;  "  and  both  in  private  and  public  denounced  his  old 
companions  as  preachers  of  Popery.  Wesley  quietly  pursued 
his  way,  but  grieved  over  the  results.  "Twenty  years 
afterwards,"  he  says,  "  I  visited  the  classes  at  Kingswood. 
Here  only  there  is  no  increase ;  and  yet,  where  was  there 
such  a  prospect  till  that  weak  man,  John  Cennick,  con- 
founded the  poor  people  with  strange  doctrines  ?  We  see  no 
end  of  it  to  this  day." 

There  is,  perhaps,  a  still  more  lasting  effect  of  Cennick's 
public  teaching  in  Ireland,  at  least.  A  few  years  ago,  a 
lover  of  Goldsmith's  poetry,  on  his  way  from  Athlone  to 


I98  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

"  Sweet  Auburn,"  saw  a  small  unpretending  chapel  by  the 
wayside,  and  inquired  of  the  car-driver  to  what  people  it 
belonged.  "  To  the  Swaddlers,"  was  the  sneering  reply. 
The  traveller  was  interested  and  amused  to  find  that  the 
term  of  reproach  still  lived  on  Popish  lips  ^  and  a  passage 
from  Charles  Wesley's  journal  naturally  occurred,  illus- 
trating the  origin  of  the  term.  He  was  in  Dublin  on 
September  10th,  i/47;  and  "at  five,"  he  says,  "all  was 
quiet  within  doors ;  but  we  had  men,  women,  and  children 
upon  us  as  soon  as  we  appeared  in  the  streets.  One  I 
observed  crying,  '  Swaddler,  Swaddler ! '  (our  usual  title 
here),  who  was  a  young  Ishmael  indeed,  and  had  not  long 
learned  to  speak.  I  am  sure  he  could  not  be  four  years  old. 
We  dined  with  a  gentleman,  who  explained  our  name  to  us. 
It  seems  we  are  beholden  to  Mr.  Cennick  for  it,  who 
abounds  in  such  expressions  as,  ' I  curse  and  blaspheme  all 
the  gods  in  heaven,  but  the  Babe  that  lay  in  the  manger,  the 
Babe  that  lay  in  Mary's  lap,  the  Babe  that  lay  in  swaddling 
clouts.'  Hence  they  nick-named  him  '  Swaddler,'  or 
f  Swaddling  John' ;  and  the  word  sticks  to  us  all,  not 
excepting  the  clergy."  The  man  who  declaimed  in  this 
style  about  the  "  Babe  in  the  manger,"  could,  however,  sing 
more  reverently  to  the  Incarnate  One  whom  God  "  exalted 
with  His  right  hand  "  : — 

We  sing  to  Thee,  Thou  Son  of  God, 

Fountain  of  life  and  grace ; 
We  praise  Thee,  Son  of  Man,  whose  blood 

Redeemed  our  fallen  race. 

Thee  we  acknowledge  God  and  Lord, 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain ; 
Thou  art  by  Heaven  and  earth  adored, 

Worthy  o'er  both  to  reign. 

To  Thee  all  angels  cry  aloud, 

Through  Heaven's  extended  coasts ; 
Hail !  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  Lord 

Of  glory  and  of  hosts. 

The  prophets'  goodly  fellowship, 

In  radiant  garments  drest, 
Praise  Thee,  Thou  Son  of  God,  and  reap 

The  fulness  of  Thy  rest. 


MORE   CLERICAL  SO  N'G-MASTERS.  199 

The  apostles'  glorious  company 

Thy  righteous  praise  proclaim  ; 
The  martyred  army  glorify 

Thine  everlasting  Name. 
Throughout  the  world  Thy  Churches  join 

To  call  on  Thee,  their  Head, 
Brightness  of  Majesty  Divine, 

Who  every  power  hast  made. 
Among  their  number,  Lord,  we  love 

To  sing  Thy  precious  blood  ; 
Reign  here,  and  in  the  worlds  above, 

Thou  holy  Lamb  of  God. 

When  Cennick  drew  back  from  companionship  with  the 
Wesleys,  he  attached  himself  to  Whitfield,  whose  theological 
notions  he  took  to  be  more  akin  to  his  own.  But  after  a  time 
there  was  another  shift,  and  he  closed  his  earthly  career  in  com- 
munion with  the  Moravians,  and  in  the  ranks  of  their  minis- 
try. He  has  again  joined  those  with  whom  he  began  his 
Methodist  itinerancy,  and  in  union  with  whom  he  had  his  first 
inspirations  as  a  hymnist.  Those  early  poets  of  Methodism  sing 
together  now,  and  Cennick  has  left  one  of  his  immortal  songs 
to  aid  those  who  are  following  him  to  the  pilgrim's  home: — 

Children  of  the  Heavenly  King, 

As  ye  journey,  sweetly  sing; 

Sing  your  Saviour's  worthy  praise, 

Glorious  in  His  works  and  ways. 

Ye  are  travelling  home  to  God, 

In  the  way  the  fathers  trod  ; 

They  are  happy  now,  and  ye 

Soon  their  happiness  shall  see. 

O  ye  banished  seed  be  glad, 

Christ  our  Advocate  is  made  ; 

Us  to  save  our  flesh  assumes, 

Brother  to  our  souls  becomes. 

Shout,  ye  ransomed  flock,  and  blest, 

You  on  Jesu's  throne  shall  rest ; 

There  your  seat  is  now  prepared, 

There  your  kingdom  and  reward. 

Fear  not,  brethren,  joyful  stand 

On  the  borders  of  your  land  ; 

Jesus  Christ,  your  Father's  Son, 

Bids  you  undismayed  go  on. 

Lord,  submissive  may  we  go, 

Gladly  leaving  all  below ; 

Only  Thou  our  Leader  be, 

And  we  still  will  follow  Thee. 


200  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ITINERANT     MINSTRELS. 

It  is  once  an  age  two  hearts  are  set 
So  well  in  unison,  that  not  a  note 
Jars  in  their  music  ;  but  a  skilful  hand 
Slurs  lightly  over  the  discordant  tones, 
And  wakens  only  the  full  power  of  those 
That  sound  in  concord. 

Happy,  happy  those, 
Who  thus  perform  in  the  grand  concert-life. 


°)S^lll^l  HAT  a  chronicle  of  providences  might  be  made 
^r4^S?iil      from   the    early   lives    of    that    generation    of 
1>ailli*S      Methodist     preachers     which     sprang    up    in 
\cJ^^       England    during  the  first  age  of  Methodism ! 
^  For  variety  of  origin,  difference  of  mental  con- 

stitution and  culture,  unlikeness  of  home  training,  and  dis- 
similarity of  appearance  and  manners,  the  men  who  laboured 
and  suffered  with  the  Wesleys  in  their  evangelizing  move- 
ment were  most  remarkable.  Nor  were  ever  such  human 
varieties  made  so  thoroughly  one  in  heart  and  purpose  as  they. 
One  secret  of  this  was  that  deep  and  commanding  sense  of 
the  living  reality  of  unseen  and  Divine  things.  Hence  their 
intense  earnestness  and  full  abandonment  to  their  spiritual 
calling.  The  invisible  was  open  to  them.  They  lived  more 
in  "  the  heavenlies "  than  in  the  earthly  world.  They 
"  walked  by  faith,  not  by  sight."  Those  of  them  who  sprang 
up  from  among  the  Cornish  mines  were  distinguished  in  this 
respect.  One  reason  may  be  found  in  their  early  introduction 
to  dark,  deep,  and  mysterious  scenes  of  danger,  and  solemn 
momently  nearness  to  death.  When  the  miner's  habit  of 
companionship  with  awful  uncertainty  and  unearthly  imagi- 
nations becomes  hallowed  by  living  faith  in  the  presence  of 
Him  to  whom  all  worlds  are  subject,  the  Christian  character 


To  feel  in  such  a  scene  and  hour, 
Mid  all  that  each  discloses, 

The  presence  of  that  viewless  power 
On  whom  the  world  reposes : 


This  to  the  heart  is  more  than  all 
Mere  beauty    an  bring  o'er  it  : 

Thought,  feeling,  fancy,  own  its  thrall 
And  joy  is  hushed  before  it. 


ITINERANT  MINSTRELS.  201 

in  that  man  becomes  bold  and  distinctive  in  its  outline,  and 
full  and  rich  in  its  energy  and  tone.  Many  such  were,  by 
Divine  impressment,  put  into  the  ranks  of  Methodist 
"  Rounders,"  as  they  were  called.  They  were  all  the  better 
prepared  to  brave  the  difficulties  and  dangers  of  their  Christian 
calling  for  having  been  brought  into  their  position  through 
fearful  perils  and  "deaths  oft."  Now  and  then  it  was 
proved  that  their  discipline  had  been  as  favourable  to  poetic 
genius  as  to  preaching  power  j  while  in  some  cases  the 
genius  and  the  speaking  gift  found  their  genial  and  proper 
scene  of  action  only  by  some  wonderfully  fine  turn  of 
things. 

Some  time  during  the  year  17^9  a  young  western  miner  in 
his  teens  had  risen  from  a  violent  fever,  and,  allured  by  the 
refreshing  air  of  Penzance  Bay,  had  wandered  out  to  enjoy 
the  balmy  influences  of  beautiful  nature. 

He  had  not  gone  far  before  he  fell  into  the  hands  of  a 
press-gang,  which,  under  the  sanction  of  the  chief  magistrate, 
was  on  the  look-out  for  prey.  The  lad  pleaded  his  youth  and 
present  weakness.  But  press-gangs  in  those  days  had  no 
tenderness ;  nor  was  the  mayor  disposed  to  be  soft.  At  the 
nick  of  time  an  honest,  peaceful,  but  fearless  Quaker  came  up. 

"  What  art  thou  going  to  do  with  that  lad  ?  "  said  he  to  the 
mayor. 

"  What  ?     I  am  going  to  send  him  to  serve  his  Majesty." 

"There  are  others  more  fit  for  the  service,"  was  the 
response.  "  Yea,  a  hundred  in  this  town  ;  send  them  5  send 
idle,  disorderly  persons,  not  honest  men's  sons  who  live  by 
their  diligence  and  frugality." 

"The  king  must  have  men,"  said  the  official 3  "if  we 
cannot  get  seamen  we  must  take  others." 

"  Look  upon  that  lad,"  answered  the  tender-hearted  Friend  j 
"thou  mayest  read  innocence  in  his  countenance." 

"  He  will  look  much  better  after  he  has  been  six  months  at 
sea ;  and  in  time  he  will  be  a  captain." 

u  Let  him  go  home,"  it  was  still  pleaded,  "  there  are  men 
enough  to  be  got  without  him." 


202 


THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 


A  few  more  words,  and  the  point  was  turned.  "  Make 
haste  home,"  said  the  mayor  to  the  lad.  And  as  he  moved 
off  he  thought  of  the  goodness  of  God,  who  by  means  of 
that  old  Friend  made  a  way  for  his  escape ;  while  many  of 
his  neighbours  were  torn  from  their  homes,  perhaps  never  to 
return.  This  was  not  the  last  nice  turn  and  narrow  escape  of 
the  young  miner.  Not  very  long  after,  he  had  to  tell  a  tale 
of  marvellous  deliverances  in  rapid  succession.  He  tells  of 
a  wonderful  escape  from  death  from  the  fall  of  a  large  stone 
while  he  was  standing  in  the  tin-pit  beneath ;  and  of  his 
being  carried  down  with  the  earth  when  it  suddenly  sunk 
into  an  old  pit,  and  being  saved  from  suffocation  by  being 
landed  in  an  open  space  beneath,  where  another  miner  was 
working.  "  But,"  says  he,  "  the  greatest  deliverance  hap- 
pened soon  after  this.  One  day  as  I  was  working  in  the 
bottom  of  a  pit,  about  ten  yards  deep,  I  laid  aside  my  tool, 
and  fell  on  my  knees,  and  found  uncommon  enlargement  in 
prayer.  In  less  than  two  minutes  the  ground  fell  in.  A 
very  large  stone  fell  before  me,  which  rose  higher  than  my 
head.  Two  others  fell,  one  on  my  right  side,  and  the  other 
on  my  left  -}  these  likewise  rose  above  my  head.  A  fourth 
fell  like  a  cover,  and  rested  on  the  top  of  the  others,  about 
four  inches  above  my  head.  Some  scores  of  small  ones  fell 
behind  on  my  legs  and  feet  •  while  others  fell  on  the  cover 
that  was  over  me.  Here  I  was  shut  up  as  in  a  prison. 
When  my  father  came  to  the  brink  of  the  pit  and  found  me 
buried,  he  fell  a  weeping.  But  when  he  found  I  was  alive, 
he  told  me  the  whole  pit  would  fill  to  the  top.  I  desired 
him  to  go  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.  I  was  a  little  sur- 
prised at  first •  but  it  was  soon  gone,  as  the  stones  were  large 
and  hollow,  and  I  had  sufficient  room  to  breathe.  When  he 
perceived  that  no  more  stones  fell,  he  got  help,  and  by 
degrees  removed  some  of  the  large  stones ;  and  after  cutting 
my  shoes  from  my  feet,  I  was  got  out  without  receiving  the 
least  injury.  I  cannot  help  admiring  the  providence  of  God 
in  the  following  particulars  : — 

"i.  I  was  praying  at  the  time  when  this  happened. 


ITINERANT  MINSTRELS.  203 

"  2.  I  was  kneeling.  Had  I  been-  standing,  I  should  have 
been  crushed  to  pieces  j  had  I  been  sitting,  my  legs  would 
have  been  broken  with  the  large  stone  which  fell  before 
me. 

"  3.  They  fell  in  an  instant.  Had  I  heard  them  coming, 
probably  I  should  have  risen  from  my  knees  -,  and  then  the 
stones  which  fell  like  a  cover  would  have  dashed  out  my 
brains. 

"  4.  Three  large  stones  fell,  one  before  me,  and  one  on 
each  side ;  and  only  small  ones  behind  on  my  legs.  Had  a 
large  one  fallen  there,  my  legs  would  have  been  broken  into 
shivers. 

"5.  The  three  large  ones  that  fell  were  "a  few  inches 
higher  than  my  head,  and  were  instantly  covered  with 
another  large  one.  Had  they  been  a  few  inches  lower,  the 
last  would  certainly  have  killed  me  in  a  moment.  Surely 
this  preservation  was  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marvellous 
in  our  eyes." 

The  young  man  thus  brought  up  alive  from  the  dead  was 
Richard  Rodda ;  born  in  1743,  in  the  parish  of  Sancreed,  on 
the  heights  between  Penzance  and  the  Atlantic  ;  a  few  miles 
from  the  romantic  mining  district  of  St.  Just,  among  whose 
metallic  hills  it  was  that  he  had  been  so  frequently  sheltered 
from  death.  His  earliest  recollections  were  of  vision-like 
insights  into  revealed  truth,  of  Methodist  preachers  coming 
to  preach  in  his  father's  house,  of  conflicts  in  his  boyish 
mind  between  good  and  evil,  and  of  Divine  lessons  coming 
to  his  heart  through  a  preserving  Providence.  "  One  day," 
he  says,  "  I  was  riding  at  full  gallop  in  company  with  several 
others,  my  horse  threw  me  over  his  head,  and  then  quite 
leaped  over  me ;  and,  although  another  horse  coming  close 
behind  did  the  same,  yet  I  received  no  hurt."  Reflection 
on  all  these  evident  interferences  on  his  behalf  from  above 
led  him  to  conclude  that  God  intended  to  show  how  soon  He 
could  take  him  away  from  the  scene  of  action  ;  and  that  his 
only  way  of  securing  a  safe  as  well  as  happy  life  was  to 
obey  the  conviction  that  he  was  called  to  preach  the  Gospel 


L 


204  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

of  Christ.  "One  Lord's  day,"  he  writes,  u we  expected  a 
travelling  preacher.  The  people  were  gathered  together 
from  various  parts,  when  word  was  brought  that  he  could 
not  come.  On  hearing  this,  I  was  desired  to  stand  up  and 
speak  to  the  people.  The  conflict  in  my  breast  was  very 
strong,  but  I  refused  to  open  my  mouth."  A  darkness 
fell  on  his  soul,  and  a  kind  of  horror  seized  him,  under 
which  he  at  length  vowed  to  obey  his  conviction.  "  Accord- 
ingly," he  says,  "I  exhorted  that  night,  for  the  first  time, 
which  was  in  my  father's  house.  Soon  after,  I  was  desired 
to  exhort  in  the  society  ;  and  then,  by  their  advice,  I  did  it  in 
public." 

He  had  taken  his  proper  course,  and,  from  that  moment, 
he  was  the  happy  and  successful  Methodist  preacher  ;  sound 
in  judgment,  strict  in  his  rule  of  life,  diligent  in.  his  work, 
and  exercising  his  well-balanced  powers  for  the  good  of 
saints  and  sinners.  Among  his  talents  was  that  of  poetry ; 
and,  like  many  others,  he  found  his  poetic  genius  called 
into  play  by  the  grace  and  the  joys  of  his  new  birth.  He 
had  been  from  early  life  feeling  after  God  ;  and  in  boyhood 
would  fain  have  found  himself  an  acknowledged  member  of 
the  Methodist  Society.  At  length,  when  Mr.  Wesley 
"  called  over  the  Society  at  Newlyn,"  near  Penzance,  he  was 
received  into  membership.  For  two  years,  at  least,  he 
sought  rest  for  his  soul.  How  he  found  it,  he  tells 
Mr.  Wesley  in  a  letter. 

"About  the  beginning  of  June,  1758,  while  I  was  praying 
in  my  father's  house,  and  earnestly  entreating  God  to  write 
forgiveness  on  my  heart,  the  following  words  darted  into  my 
soul,  '  Son,  be  of  good  cheer,  thy  sins  are  forgiven  thee.' 
In  that  instant  my  burden  was  removed,  and  my  soul  was 
rilled  with  peace  and  joy.  But  I  soon  doubted  whether  this 
was  what  many  termed  '  justification  {  and  as  I  had  always 
a  fear  of  deceiving  myself,  the  enemy  soon  reasoned  me  out 
of  my  happiness,  and  my  soul  seemed  as  far  from  the 
blessing  as  ever.  On  the  1  ith  of  that  month,  while  Benjamin 
Trembath  was  praying  by  me,  God  gave  me  a  clear  sense 


ITINERANT  MINSTRELS.  20J 

of  His  forgiving  love.  There  was  not  the  least  doubt  re- 
maining of  my  acceptance  through  the  Beloved.  For  many 
days  and  weeks  I  was  enabled  to  rejoice  in  God,  my  Saviour. 
Every  duty  was  profitable,  as  it  conveyed  fresh  tokens  of  the 
Divine  favour.  My  understanding  was  opened  to  behold 
the  power,  wisdom,  and  goodness  of  God,  in  creating, 
preserving,  and  governing  the  world.  I  saw  that  the  whole 
earth  was  full  of  His  majesty  and  glory.  But  what  most 
astonished  me  was  the  wondrous  greatness  of  redeeming 
love.  To  behold  the  Ancient  of  days  become  an  infant ! 
The  filler  of  immensity,  contracted  to  a  span  !  The  Lord  of 
heaven  and  earth  taking  upon  Him  the  form  of  a  servant ; 
and,  after  fulfilling  all  righteousness,  bowing  His  blessed 
head  on  the  cross,  to  save  His  avowed  enemies  !  These  con- 
siderations filled  me  with  love  and  gratitude,  which  I 
expressed  in  the  following  lines — 

"  Praise  God,  my  soul,  whose  wondrous  love 
Hath  drawn  my  thoughts  to  things  above, 

Where  Jesus  ever  reigns ; 
Let  every  sinful  wand'iing  thought 
Be  into  full  subjection  brought, 

Till  freed  from  sin's  remains. 

"  When  pure,  and  perfected  in  love, 
O,  may  I  never,  never  rove 

From  Christ,  my  living  Head ; 
But  steadfast  and  unshaken  stand, 
Obedient  to  my  Lord's  command, 

While  by  His  Spirit  led. 

"Among  the  little  happy  flock, 
Who  sit  beneath  their  guardian  rock, 

Will  I  take  up  my  rest ; 
My  Shepherd's  voice  my  soul  shall  hear, 
And,  freed  from  doubts  and  slavish  fear, 

Shall  lean  upon  His  breast. 

"  His  loving  arms  extended  wide, 
Shall  press  me  to  His  wounded  side, 

Nor  let  me  thence  depart ; 
But  fill  my  soul  with  joy  and  peace, 
And  all  the  fruits  of  righteousness 
Shall  flourish  in  my  heart. 


206  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

41  The  heavenly  spices  of  His  grace 
Do  sweetly  now  perfume  the  place 

Where  Satan  had  his  seat ; 
Jesus  hath  spoil'd  the  powers  of  hell, 
And  lo  !  I  now  for  ever  dwell 

Triumphant  at  His  feet ! 

"  Here  will  I  lie,  nor  ever  move, 
Till  Christ,  my  Lord,  shall  say,  '  My  love, 

Come  up,  and  dwell  with  me' : 
Then  I  on  wings  of  love  shall  rise, 
And  reign  with  Him  above  the  skies, 
To  all  eternity." 

This  was  his  first  hymn.  Whether  his  after-course  was 
brightened  with  other  songs  is  not  known  ;  but  the  one  he 
has  left  as  an  expression  of  his  "  first  love  "  is  happy  enough 
in  diction,  tender  enough  in  feeling,  and  sufficiently  har- 
monious in  measure  and  rhythm,  to  prove  that  he  had 
"music  in  himself  "j  and  that  he  may  be  classed  with 
Methodist  itinerant  minstrels.  His  pilgrimage  as  an 
itinerant  minstrel  and  preacher  ran  through  thirty-three 
years.  He  lingered  in  hope,  after  becoming  unequal  to 
farther  wanderings,  for  twelve  or  thirteen  years ;  and  then, 
with  the  light  of  Canaan  touching  his  soul,  he  looked  back 
tenderly,  for  a  moment,  to  the  time  when  his  first  hymn 
broke  from  his  renewed  heart,  saying:  "It  is  now  about  fifty- 
eight  years  since  the  Lord  set  my  soul  at  glorious  liberty, 
and  I  have  found  Him  to  be  a  gracious  God  all  the  way, 
faithful  to  His  promise.  Not  one  word  has  failed.  Glory  be 
to  His  name  !  I  could  go  to  Smithfield  and  die  for  His  dear 
cause.  I  know  I  could.  But  now  let  me  enter  into  the  joy 
of  my  Lord!  Come,  Lord  Jesus,  come  quickly!"  The 
Master  came,  and  the  old  itinerant  minstrel  verified  his  own 
early  stanza — 

Here  will  I  lie,  nor  ever  move, 

Till  Christ  my  Lord  shall  say,  "  My  love, 

Come  up  and  dwell  with  Me." 
Then  I  on  wings  of  faith  shall  rise, 
And  reign  with  Him  above  the  skies, 

To  all  eternity. 

In  the  valley  which  crosses  the  lower  part  of  the  ancient 
Cornish  town  of  Redruth,  there  is  a  curious  architectural  relic, 


ITINERANT    MINSTRELS.  207 

called  the  "  Round  House.,,  The  part  of  the  building  from 
which  the  name  is  taken  was  literally  around  house ;  whether 
originally  a  dwelling,  or  a  mill  of  some  sort,  does  not  appear. 
It  stands  by  the  side  of  a  stream  which  runs  down  the 
valley,  and,  with  its  heavy  chimney-stack  and  its  thickly- 
thatched  conical  roof,  is  a  quaint  memorial  of  things  as  they 
were  two  hundred  years  ago.  A  kind  of  wing  was  attached 
to  it  in  1726 — a  strongly-built  dwelling,  and  very  respectable 
as  an  ordinary  house  of  that  period.  A  peculiar  religious 
interest  belongs  to  the  Round  House,  the  term  now  applied 
to  the  entire  building.  In  the  more  modern  part  there  is  a 
large  room,  in  which  Methodist  prayer-meetings  used  to  be 
held  a  century  ago.  In  that  room,  what  is  called  in  the 
county  "  the  great  revival  "  of  1814  began.  Eight  persons 
were  converted  there  in  a  prayer-meeting ;  and  from  that 
meeting  there  went  out  the  feeling  and  power  which  spread 
through  the  whole  western  part  of  Cornwall,  until  scarcely 
a  house  could  be  passed  in  which  there  was  not  the  voice  of 
prayer  and  praise.  Among  the  converts  in  that  revival  was  a 
young  woman  of  eighteen,  the  granddaughter  of  the  old 
Methodist  to  whom  the  Round  House  belonged.  "  She  is 
still  alive  to  tell  the  story,"  says  a  visitor  of  the  sick,  "and  is 
patiently  waiting  for  her  Lord's  coming  in  a  bed-room  over 
the  apartment  in  which  the  great  work  of  God  began.  She 
remembered  her  grandfather ;  was  in  the  house  when  he 
died  5  and  would  never  forget  his  funeral  sermon  being 
preached  before  the  door,  where  the  ash-tree  stands,  the 
preacher  taking  his  place  on  the  steps  which  lead  to  the 
upper  room  at  the  end  of  the  house.  I  have  often  talked 
with  the  good  old  woman  about  her  young  days,  and  have 
sometimes  caught  from  her  lips  interesting  scraps  of  infor- 
mation about  early  Methodism  in  Redruth.  She  could  call 
up,  now  and  then,  things  which  her  grandfather  had  said  in 
her  hearing  about  the  itinerant  preachers  in  his  time.  In  the 
year  1781,  it  seems,  there  were  two  preachers  who  left  vivid 
impressions  on  the  old  man's  mind.  They  both  visited  the 
Round  House  as  pastors,  and  occasionally  took  the  lead  of 


208  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

meetings  in  "the  large  room."  They  were  distinguished  as 
the  "  Singer  "  and  the  "  Man  of  Prayer."  The  man  of  prayer 
was  one  whose  clothes  showed  the  first  sign  of  wear  and  tear 
at  the  knees,  and  as  one  who,  though  he  lisped  a  little, 
had  a  voice  of  prayer  which  was  mighty  with  God  and  with 
man.  An  illustration .  of  his  character  was  distinctly  re- 
membered : — 

The  chapel  at  that  time  was  a  long  building  with  square 
windows,  a  gallery  at  one  end  and  the  pulpit  at  the  other, 
somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  what  is  now  called  a  rostrum, 
extending  for  some  length  against  the  wall.  The  preacher 
stood  about  the  middle  of  it,  and  behind  him  there  was  a 
long  seat,  occupied,  as  it  was  said,  by  "the  leaders  and 
principals."  Some  of  these  magnates,  it  would  appear,  were 
of  sufficient  importance,  judging  from  a  note  of  John 
Wesley's  to  the  itinerant  known  as  the  "  Singer."  "  Observe 
the  rules  of  the  Conference,"  the  note  ran:  "whoever  is 
pleased  or  displeased,  the  trustees  and  leaders  will  soon 
trample  them  under  foot  if  you  will  let  them.  But  I  think 
you  can  be  mild  and  yet  firm."  Now  it  happened  that  one 
of  these  wilful-footed  lay  occupants  of  the  formidable  seat 
behind  the  preacher,  asked  the  man  of  prayer  to  dine  with 
him  after  a  Sunday  morning  service.  As  soon  as  they  were 
fairly  in  the  house,  the  host  turned  critic,  and  said  to  his  guest, 
"  You  have  preached  us  a  very  poor  sermon  this  morning,  sir." 

•'  What,  my  dear  brother  !"  was  the  answer,  "  kneel  down, 
my  dear  brother,  and  let  us  pray."  His  critical  doctorship 
could  not  refuse.  So  they  were  on  their  knees ;  and  the 
preacher  began  by  saying,  "  O  Lord  !  have  mercy  upon  this 
dear  brother ;  enlighten  his  understanding,  and  give  him  to 
know  the  truth,  that  the  truth  may  make  him  free."  The 
prayer  was  continued  until  the  critic's  heart  was  subdued,  and 
his  critical  tongue  for  ever  silenced  in  the  presence  of  the 
saintly  preacher.  This  man  of  prayer  was  Samuel  Bardsley. 

The  other  itinerant  was  a  man  of  prayer,  too,  but  he  had 
the  additional  distinction  of  musical  and  poetic  gifts.  He 
was  the  "  Sweet  Singer."    It  was  Benjamin  Rhodes. 


ITINERANT   MINSTRELS.  200. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  pilgrim  of  the  Round  House,  "  I  lie 
here  on  my  bed,  and  think  it  over  sometimes :  how  my 
grandfather  used  to  talk  about  his  singing,  and  how  the 
young  people  used  to  learn  the  tunes  that  he  would  pitch,  and 
sing  the  hymns  he  liked  to  sing.'* 

"Do  you  rem?mber  any  of  the  hymns  or  tunes?"  it  was 
inquired. 

"  Well,  no  ;  I  was  but  young,  and  things  are  getting  misty 
to  me  now.  I  do  seem  to  catch  a  little  of  what  I  used  to 
hear.  It  was  something  sung  in  parts,  and  the  voices  used 
to  come  one  after  another  in  some  places,  and  then  melt 
altogether  into  such  sweet  music.  It  used  to  ring  so,  some- 
thing like  bells." 

"  Do  you  remember  the  words  ?" 

u  One  line  or  so  comes  to  me,  but  that  is  all.    It  is — 

*'  My  heart  and  voice  I  raise, 
To  spread  Messiah's  praise." 

"  Why,  that  was  Mr.  Rhodes's  own  hymn.  I  can  say  it 
to  you  all,  if  you  like  to  hear  it.  I  can't  sing  it  now,  as  1 
used  to  sing  it  with  my  father  and  aunt,  who  remembered 
Mr.  Rhodes.     This  is  the  hymn  : — 

"  My  heart  and  voice  I  raise, 

To  spread  Messiah's  praise ; 
Messiah's  praise  let  all  repeat ; 

The  universal  Lord, 

By  whose  Almighty  word 
Creation  rose  in  form  complete. 

"  A  servant's  form  He  wore, 

And  in  His  body  bore 
Our  dreadful  curse  on  Calvary  ; 

He  like  a  victim  stood, 

And  poured  His  sacred  blood, 
To  set  the  guilty  captives  free. 

"  But  soon  the  Victor  rose 

Triumphant  o'er  His  foes, 
And  led  the  vanquish'd  host  in  chains ; 

He  threw  their  empire  down, 

His  foes  compell'd  to  own 
O'er  all  the  great  Messiah  reigns. 


2FO  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

"  With  mercy's  mildest  grace, 

He  governs  all  our  race 
In  wisdom,  righteousness,  and  love ; 

Who  to  Messiah  fly 

Shall  find  redemption  nigh, 
And  all  His  great  salvation  prove. 

u  Hail,  Saviour,  Prince  of  Peace! 

Thy  kingdom  shall  increase, 
Till  all  the  world  Thy  glory  see  ; 

And  righteousness  abound, 

As  the  great  deep  profound, 
And  fill  the  earth  with  purity." 

"Ah!"  said  the  old  saint,  as  the  hymn  was  finished, 
"that  makes  me  feel  as  if  young  life  was  springing  up  again. 
Well,  I  shall  be  young  again  soon,  and  sing  with  those  who 
are  gone  up  before  me  to  be  young  for  ever." 

Mr.  Rhodes  was  a  Yorkshireman.  He  was  born  in  the 
year  1743,  at  Kexborough,  in  the  south-west  of  the  county. 
He  had  the  advantage  of  being  the  son  of  a  schoolmaster,  and 
of  being  the  child  of  a  home  in  which  private  and  family 
devotion  were  kept  up.  The  old  and  happy  style  of  home 
training  was  a  blessing  to  him.  The  household  were  regularly 
catechised.  While  a  boy,  he  was  taken  to  Bristol  by  his 
father  to  hear  Mr.  Whitfield  preach  ;  and  under  that  hallowed 
voice  his  young  heart  received  impressions  that  never  ceased 
to  influence  his  character  and  life.  How  charmingly  the 
early  minglings  of  his  poetic  feeling  and  his  religious  sym- 
pathies become  traceable ! 

"At  about  twelve  years  of  age,"  he  writes,  "  I  took  a  walk 
one  evening  into  a  large  thick  wood,  not  far  from  the  town. 
I  left  the  path,  and  wandered  in  the  thickest  part  of  it,  till  I 
was  entirely  lost.  Night  began  to  close  in  upon  me,  and  I 
did  not  know  which  way  to  turn  my  face  towards  home.  It 
soon  became  quite  dark.  I  then  gave  over  rambling,  and 
intended  to  remain  there  till  the  next  morning,  when  I  hoped 
to  find  my  way  out.  In  this  situation  I  found  my  former 
impressions  begin  to  return  with  much  sweetness.  My  soul 
was  drawn  out  in  prayer ;  I  was  deeply  sensible  of  the 
presence  of  God ;  my  heart  overflowed  with  penitential 
tenderness,  and,  under  a  deep  sense  of  my  own  un worthiness, 


ITINERANT   MINSTRELS.  21  I 

and  of  His  goodness,  mercy,  and  love,  I  sang  and  prayed  with 
much  fervour  ;  yea,  I  was  so  thankful  that  the  Lord  had  found 
me  in  a  wood  that  I  would  not  for  all  the  world  have  missed 
such  an  opportunity." 

This  devout  and  spiritual  tendency  of  his  youthful  soul  was 
broken,  by-and-by,  under  the  influence  of  evil  example  and 
the  unfolding  fascinations  of  surrounding  life.  Still,  his  love 
of  the  beautiful  and  the  true  again  claimed  the  mastery  ;  and 
though  the  harmony  of  his  religious  notions,  as  well  as  his 
pious  feeling,  once  or  twice  suffered  violence  from  those  who 
unhappily  identified  Christianity  with  doctrinal  strife,  yet  his 
poetic  taste,  and  pure,  simple  love,  came  out  of  the  trial  in 
beautiful  and  happy  companionship. 

"My  fears  were  gone,"  says  he,  "and  the  truth  of 
Christianity  appeared  to  me  in  the  clearest  light.  Not  only 
my  understanding  saw,  but  all  my  powers  felt,  the  truth 
thereof.  I  had  a  deep  sense  of  a  present  God,  whom  I 
approached  in  the  name  of  Jesus  with  reverential  awe,  confi- 
dence, gratitude,  and  love,  and  could  call  Him  (  my  God  and 
my  all.'  In  this  happy  season  my  joy  frequently  prevented 
my  sleep,  while  my  soul  was  taken  up  with  Him  who  is 
altogether  lovely ;  and  in  ecstacies  of  joy,  in  the  stillness  of 
the  night,  I  often  sang  my  great  Deliverer's  praise.  All  things 
earthly  appeared  so  empty  that  I  thought  nothing  here  below 
worth  a  thought,  only  as  it  tended  to  promote  my  eternal 
interest ;  I  only  desired  grace  and  glory." 

He  found  himself,  with  all  this,  tenderly  susceptible  of 
appeals  to  his  affections,  and,  like  many  others  of  his  tempera- 
ment, charms  from  without  drew  closely  around  his  young, 
palpitating  heart.  But  the  word  of  God  proved  the  more 
powerful  charm ;  and  every  entanglement  of  which  he  was, 
for  a  time,  in  danger,  melted  from  around  his  heaven-bound 
soul.  In  his  twenty-first  year  he  began  to  devote  his  gifts 
and  acquirements  to  the  service  of  his  Redeemer,  and  in  the 
year  1776  became  a  Methodist  travelling  preacher.  He 
wandered,  scattering  blessings  as  he  went,  through  Norfolk 
and    Oxfordshire,    Kent    and    Lincolnshire,    Scotland    and 


212  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 

Sussex.  At  length,  returning  into  Kent,  he  writes,  u  Since  I 
came  into  these  parts  I  have  lost  a  sister  and  mother,  who,  I 
believe,  are  both  gone  after  my  father  into  Abraham's  bosom  ; 
but  I  am  left  behind,  almost  the  only  person  out  of  a  large 
family.  But  how  long  or  how  short  my  day  may  be,  I  leave  to 
unerring  Wisdom  ;  one  only  concern  ought  to  possess  me — 
to  employ  it  as  I  ought ;  then,  at  the  close  of  it,  I  also  shall 
sleep  in  peace,  and,  after  a  short  absence,  be  with  my  dear 
departed  friends. 

"  Thrice  happy  meeting  ! 
Nor  time,  nor  death,  shall  ever  part  us  more." 

Thus  bereft  of  all  whose  smiles  had  kept  him  circling  as  nearly 
as  might  be  around  the  scenes  of  his  younger  life,  he  came  to 
Redruth  to  sing  to  the  Cornish  Methodists,  and  to  find  con- 
solation amidst  the  warm  sympathies  of  those  whose  jubilant 
piety  reflected  upon  his  musical  soul  the  harmonies  which  his 
own  spiritual  songs  inspired. 

For  several  years  at  the  opening  of  the  present  century,  the 
lofty  brow,  peaceful  face,  and  thoughtful  eye,  that  had  been, 
during  fifty  years  of  itinerant  life,  turned  upon  gathering 
crowds,  with  brightening  expressions  of  simplicity,  truthful- 
ness, loving  zeal,  and  heaven  liness,  were  to  be  seen  occasion- 
ally on  the  sands  of  old  Margate,  looking  out  on  the  sea,  or 
watching  the  advancing  work  of  the  new  pier,  or  turned 
heavenward  from  the  top  of  the  bright  chalk  cliffs,  or  opened 
again,  now  and  then,  upon  the  people  from  the  pulpit,  or 
marking  with  growing  interest  the  rise  of  the  new  chapel  in 
Hawley  Square ;  or,  like  an  angel's  face,  bending  looks  of 
kindness  by  the  bed-side  of  some  seeking  sinner  or  departing 
saint :  everywhere  and  at  all  times,  until  the  worn-out  form 
sank  to  its  own  rest,  looking  like  an  embodiment  of  the 
spiritual  longings,  cheerful  hopes,  and  reverent  assurance 
which  live  and  breathe  in  the  second  part  of  his  glorious  hymn — 

Jerusalem  divine, 

When  shall  1  call  thee  mine  ? 
And  to  thy  holy  hill  attain, 

Where  weary  pilgrims  rest, 

And  in  thy  glories  blest, 
With  God  Messiah  ever  reisri  ? 


ITINERANT   MINSTRELS.  21  3 

There  saints  and  angels  join 

In  fellowship  divine, 
And  rapture  swells  the  solemn  lay ; 

While  all  with  one  accord 

Adore  their  glorious  Lord, 
And  shout  His  praise  through  endless  day. 

May  I  but  find  the  grace 

To  fill  an  humble  place 
In  that  inheritance  above ; 

My  tuneful  voice  I'll  raise 

In  songs  of  loudest  praise, 
To  spread  Thy  fame,  Redeeming  Love. 

Reign,  true  Messiah,  reign  ! 

Thy  kingdom  shall  remain 
When  stars  and  sun  no  more  shall  shine. 

Mysterious  Deity, 

Who  ne'er  began  to  be, 
To  sound  Thy  endless  praise  be  mine  1 

Up  among  the  hills  of  south-west  Yorkshire,  amidst  its 
glorious  border  moorlands,  stands  Old  Haworth  ;  notorious, 
in  these  times,  as  the  land  of  romance,  where  the  Brontes 
lived  and  wrote,  but  formerly  loved  as  a  place  of  holier 
memories.  There,  one  day,  in  the  year  174^,  stood  up 
a  big,  burly,  powerful  Scotchman,  more  to  be  feared  than 
fearing.  He  was  an  itinerant  preacher.  And  in  his  congre- 
gation was  the  parish  parson,  at  that  time  ignorant  of  saving 
grace,  but  confident  that  he  had  college  logic  enough  to  con- 
fute the  preacher.  The  preacher,  however,  was  so  well 
versed  in  the  Scriptures  and  the  parson's  own  liturgy,  as  to 
be  more  than  a  match  for  his  antagonist.  The  preacher 
came  again  ;  and  then  Grimshaw,  for  he  it  was,  stood  by  the 
itinerant  and  gave  out  the  hymn  for  him.  The  people 
shouted,  "Mad  Grimshaw  is  turned  Scotch  Will's  clerk! 
and  Scotch  Will  leads  and  guides  Mad  Grimshaw!"  The 
parson  now  became  the  inquirer,  "  How  shall  I  preach  sal- 
vation by  faith,"  said  he,  "  and  the  necessity  of  a  clean  heart, 
while  I  myself  do  not  possess  these  blessings  ?"  "  How  ?" 
said  Scotch  Will,  "  you  must  preach  them  till  you  experience 
them  5  and  then  because  you  enjoy  them." 

The  advice  was  taken  ;  and  Grimshaw,  writing  afterwards 
to  Dr.  Gillies,  says :    "  Darney  preached  at  Haworth  5   the 


2J4  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

Lord  was  with  him,  indeed ;  I  have  cause  to  bless  God 
for  it."  Scotch  Will  was  William  Darney,  who  joined 
Mr.  Wesley's  society  in  1742.  He  became  an  itinerant 
preacher ;  was  very  successful  in  forming  societies  in  various 
places  not  before  visited ;  and  was  a  great  sufferer  from 
violent  persecutions.  All  his  sufferings,  however,  did  not 
stop  his  preaching  or  singing.  He  was  the  first  man  of  his 
order  who  published  hymns  of  his  own  making ;  issuing  a 
volume  of  two  hundred  and  fourteen  hymns,  printed  in  Leeds 
in  ry^i.  He  never  claimed  to  be  a  poet  5  and  if  he  had,  his 
claim  would  never,  perhaps,  be  allowed, — not  by  Charles 
Wesley,  at  least ;  for  under  his  influence,  Darney's  verses 
gave  way  to  better  songs.  Nevertheless,  the  rough  people 
whom  he  taught  to  sing  could  appreciate  his  genius,  and 
loved  to  sing  his  hymns,  doggrel  as  many  of  them  were.  All 
honour  to  the  man  who  did  his  best  for  his  Lord's  sake. 
One  of  his  spiritual  songs  was  headed,  "  God  is  the  salva- 
tion of  His  people"  : — 

Come,  O  my  God  and  King, 

Thy  will  to  me  make  known  ; 
Salvation  do  Thou  bring, 

Salvation  through  Thy  Son  ; 
Seal  this  salvation  on  my  heart, 
Then  1  from  Thee  shall  never  part. 

O  let  me  never  doubt 

What  Thou  hast  done  for  me, 
Since  Thou  hast  thus  wrought  out 

Salvation  that  is  free ; 
Seal  this  salvation  on  my  heart, 
Then  I  from  Thee  shall  never  part. 

Salvation  from  the  guilt 

And  from  the  power  of  sin  ; 
For  this  Thy  blood  was  spilt, 

The  same  do  Thou  bring  in  : 
All  whom  the  Son  doth  thus  make  free, 
They  walk  in  glorious  liberty. 

O  may  I  daily  prove 

This  liberty  within, 
And  feel  my  Saviour's  love, 

Which  saves  me  from  my  sin ; 
Then  shall  I  walk  in  liberty, 
Because  the  Son  hath  set  me  free. 


ITINERANT  MINSTRELS.  21$ 

About  ten  years  before  he  died,  Darney  retired  from  his 
active  itinerancy,  but  continued  to  work,  within  a  limited 
circle,  on  the  border-land  of  Lancashire  j  and  finished  his 
labours,  sufferings,  and  mortal  songs  in  1779.  He  passed 
away  in  deep  peace. 

Charles  Wesley  records  a  visit  to  Haworth  on  October  17th, 
1756,  and  says  :  "A  young  preacher  of  Mr.  Ingham's  came 
to  spend  the  evening  with  me  at  Mr.  Grimshaw's.  I  found 
love  for  him,  and  wished  all  our  sons  in  the  Gospel  were 
equally  modest  and  discreet."  On  the  next  day — "He 
accompanied  us  to  Heptonstal,  where  I  preached.  We  went 
on  our  way  rejoicing  to  Ewood.  There  the  hard  rain  cut 
short  my  discourse.  Mr.  Allen  could  not  leave  us  yet,  but 
rode  with  us  as  far  as  Gawksholm."  James  Allen  was  a 
native  of  Wensleydale,  Yorkshire,  where  he  was  born,  June 
24th,  1734.  He  joined  Mr.  Ingham  as  an  itinerant  evan- 
gelist in  1752,  and  was  useful  as  a  hymnist  as  well  as  preacher. 
He  left  the  Inghamite  branch  of  early  Methodism  in  1761, 
having  changed  his  views  of  doctrine  and  discipline.  "  My 
eyes,"  he  says,  "were  never  fully  opened  till  the  latter  end  of 
October,  1762.  How  am  I  now  ashamed  of  my  preaching, 
and  the  hymn-book  I  was  concerned  in  printing !  Almost 
every  page  put  me  to  the  blush."  Some  of  his  spiritual  songs, 
nevertheless,  in  their  revised  condition,  have  been  sung  by 
numberless  warm-hearted  Christians. 

Generations  have  gone  since  his  peaceful  end  in  1804  j  but 
his  voice  of  psalmody  is  still  heard  in  such  hymns  as  his  on 
"Worthy  the  Lamb." 

Glory  to  God  on  high, 
Let  praises  fill  the  sky ; 

Praise  ye  His  name  ! 
Angels  His  name  adore, 
Who  all  our  sorrows  bore, 
And  saints  cry  evermore, 

Worthy  the  Lamb ! 

All  they  around  the  throne 
Cheerfully  join  in  one, 
Praising  His  name ! 


2l6 


THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 


We  who  have  felt  His  blood 
Sealing  our  peace  with  God, 
Spread  His  dear  fame  abroad, 
Worthy  the  Lamb! 

To  Him  our  hearts  we  raise, 
None  else  shall  have  our  praise ; 

Praise  ye  His  name  ! 
Him  our  exalted  Lord, 
By  us  below  adored, 
We  praise  with  one  accord, 

Worthy  the  Lamb  I 

If  we  should  hold  our  peace, 
Stones  would  cry  out  apace, 

Praise  ye  His  name  ! 
Love  does  our  souls  inspire 
With  heavenly,  pure  desire, 
And  sets  us  all  on  fire, 

Worthy  the  Lamb ! 

Join  all  the  human  race, 
Our  Lord  and  God  to  bless  ; 

Praise  ye  His  name  I 
In  Him  we  will  rejoice, 
Making  a  cheerful  noise, 
And  say  with  heart  and  voice. 

Worthy  the  Lamb  I 

Though  we  must  change  our  place, 
Our  souls  shall  never  cease 

Praising  His  name. 
To  Him  we'll  tribute  bring, 
Laud  Him  our  gracious  King, 
And  without  ceasing  sing, 

Worthy  the  Lamb  I 

Laurence  Batty  was  the  youngest  son  of  Mr.  Giles  Batty, 
a  respectable  yeoman  of  Newby  Cote,  near  Settle,  in  Craven, 
Yorkshire.  He  completed  his  education  at  St.  Catherine's 
Hall,  Cambridge,  where  he  formed  an  acquaintance  with  Mr. 
Delamotte,  the  friend  of  Ingham  and  the  Wesleys.  He 
adopted  the  principles,  and  drank  in  the  spirit  of  the  early 
Methodists.  On  his  return  to  Yorkshire  he  joined  Mr. 
Ingham,  and  began  to  preach  in  the  district  of  Craven.  He 
was  the  means  of  converting  his  parents  and  his  two 
brothers,  William    and   Christopher,    both    of   whom   were 


ITINERANT   MINSTRELS.  21"] 

somewhat  gifted  hymnists  in  connection  with  James  Allen. 
William,  who  was  born  in  17 14,  was  at  first  an  active 
opposer  of  Divine  truth,  but  was  subsequently  a  diligent, 
popular,  and  devoted  preacher  of  the  Cross.  He  united 
himself  with  Mr.  Ingham  in  1745,  and  suffered  much  per- 
secution. His  end  was  sudden,  on  the  12th  of  December, 
1788.  A  long  poem  on  "  Messiah's  Conquest"  came  from 
his  pen,  and  he  solaced  himself  amidst  his  trials  with 
spiritual  songs  ;  while  he  taught  many  a  heart  to  sing  after 
him  on  "  Salvation  to  Christ  ": — 

0  dear  Redeemer,  who  alone 
Can'st  give  me  ease  in  pain, 

Whose  blood  did  once  for  me  atone, 
And  pardon  for  me  gain. 

1  once  was  wholly  dead  in  sin, 

And  ignorant  of  Thee, 
And  walked  contentedly  therein, 
Nor  knew  Thy  love  to  me. 

But  Thine  all-seeing  eye  then  view'd, 

And  mark'd  my  every  way  ; 
And  still  in  tender  love  pursued 

Me,  who  from  Thee  did  stray. 

Thy  Name  is  now  through  grace  become 

More  precious  to  my  soul 
Than  sweetest  smell  of  rich  perfume, 

Or  Aaron's  precious  oil. 

Without  Thy  favour,  though  I  live, 

Life  but  a  burden  is  ; 
Naught  else  can  satisfaction  give  ! 

Experience  shows  me  this. 

My  faithless  heart,  O  Saviour  dear, 

Correct  with  gentle  hand  ; 
In  every  danger  be  Thou  near, 

Alone  I  cannot  stand. 

Christopher  Batty,  one  year  younger  than  his  brother 
William,  was  an  associate  in  holy  song.  Two  or  three  short 
poems  were  added  to  his  hymns.  His  wife,  Alice,  emulated 
him  in  psalmody ;  and  his  brother  William's  colleague,  John 
Green,  had  the  tuneful  gift  too.  As  Inghamite  Methodist 
itinerants,  indeed,  they  were  banded  in  the  work  of  supply- 


2l8  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

ing  their  converts  with  spiritual  songs,  and  many  of  their 
hymns  live  still  to  testify  to  the  entire  consecration  of  their 
utmost  power  and  genius  to  the  service  of  Christ.  About 
thirty  years  before  his  course  was  finished,  Christopher  Batty 
became  elder  and  minister  of  the  church  at  Kendal,  from 
which  charge  he  passed,  in  his  eighty-second  year,  into  im- 
mortal union  with  the  glorified  choir  of  early  Methodist 
itinerant  minstrels. 


A  CONTROVERSIAL  SONGSTER.  219 


CHAPTER  XL 

A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER. 


Rugged  strength  and  radiant  beauty- 
These  were  one  in  nature's  plan  ; 

Humble  toil  and  heavenward  duty—  • 
This  will  form  the  perfect  man. 


calm  September  Sunday  afternoon,  in  the  year 
?3,  crowds  of  people  were  descending  the  sides, 
or  moving  along  the  base  of  old  Carnmarth  Hill 
in  Cornwall.  They  were  gathering  towards  a 
remarkable  amphitheatre,  either  natural  or 
formed  by  the  sinking  of  ancient  mine-works. 
It  was  then  a  "  green  hollow,  gently  shelving  down,  about 
fifty  feet  deep,  about  two  hundred  feet  across  one  way,  and 
nearly  three  hundred  the  other."  At  five  o'clock  it  was  filled 
with  people,  and  the  ground  around  for  some  distance  was 
covered  by  the  crowd 3  "  so  that,"  as  an  eye-witness  said, 
"  supposing  the  space  to  be  four  score  yards  square,  and  to 
contain  five  persons  in  a  square  yard,  there  must  have  been 
about  two-and-thirty  thousand  people."  Two  persons  now 
appeared  standing  a  little  way  down  on  the  side  of  the 
hollow. 

They  were  clerical  in  appearance.  One  was  rather  a  small 
man,  of  fair  and  agreeable  countenance,  keen  of  vision,  and 
of  strong  purpose — evidently  a  man  of  power,  though  now 
nearing  the  allotted  period  of  human  life.  This  was  John 
Wesley.  He  had  preached  in  St.  Agnes'  "  Church  Town," 
at  eight  o'clock  that  morning j  at  one,  he  was  found  lifting  up 
his  voice  to  the  people  in  Redruth ;  and  now,  at  five,  he  is 
standing  to  proclaim  salvation  to  the  thousands  around  him 
in  the  celebrated  "  Gwennap  Pit."  "  It  was,"  he  says,  "  the 
largest  assembly  I  ever   preached  to.     Yet  I  found,   upon 


220  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 

inquiry,  all  could  hear,  even  to  the  skirts  of  the  congregation. 
Perhaps  the  first  time  that  a  man  of  seventy  had  been  heard 
by  thirty  thousand  persons  at  once."  That  was  a  grand  and 
awfully  impressive  scene ;  "  I  think,"  says  one  who  was  there, 
"the  most  magnificent  spectacle  which  is  to  be  seen  on  this 
side  of  Heaven.  And  no  music  is  to  be  heard  upon  earth 
comparable  to  the  sound  of  many  thousand  voices,  when  they 
are  all  harmoniously  joined  together,  singing  praises  to  God 
and  the  Lamb.'' 

The  other  figure  standing  by  Wesley  was  that  of  a  man 
rather  taller  and  less  neatly  made ;  a  man  in  the  prime  of 
life,  with  a  face  that  could  not  be  looked  at  without  interest  ; 
open,  well  formed,  and  manly.  The  eye  that  kindled  and 
flashed  as  the  mighty  music  of  the  hymn  rose  from  the  en- 
thusiastic multitude,  was  the  eye  of  a  thinker,  keen,  telling 
of  logical  wariness  and  ready  skill,  and  giving  out,  in 
harmony  with  its  kindred  features,  expressions  of  genius, 
humour,  boldness,  ardent  temper,  and  vivid  imagination.  It 
was  Thomas  Oliver's,  one  of  Mr.  Wesley's  itinerant  preachers, 
his  friend  and  assistant  polemic.  He  now  came,  in  company 
with  Mr.  Wesley,  to  visit  his  friends  in  Cornwall.  He  had 
been  on  the  ground  before,  and  it  was  while  on  this  Cornish 
round,  or  circuit,  that  he  had  the  first  of  those  impressive 
dreams  which  seemed  to  have  called  his  poetic  powers  into 
action. 

"  While  I  was  in  this  circuit,"  he  says,  "  I  dreamed  one 
night  that  Christ  was  come  in  the  clouds  to  judge  the  world, 
and  also  that  he  looked  exceedingly  black  at  me.  When  I 
awoke  I  was  much  alarmed.  I  therefore  humbled  myself 
exceedingly,  with  fastings  and  prayer ;  and  was  determined 
never  to  give  over  till  my  evidence  of  the  love  of  Christ  was 
made  quite  clear.  One  day  as  I  was  in  prayer  in  my  room, 
with  my  eyes  shut,  the  Lord,  as  it  were,  appeared  to  the  eye 
of  my  mind,  as  standing  just  before  me,  when  ten  thousand 
small  streams  of  blood  seemed  to  issue  from  every  part  of  his 
body.  This  sight  was  so  unexpected,  and  at  the  same  time 
so  seasonable,  that  for  once  I  wept  aloud — yea,  and  almost 


A   CONTROVERSIAL   SONGSTER.  221 

fainted  away.  I  now  more  fully  believed  His  love  to  me,  and 
that,  if  He  was  then  to  come  to  judgment,  He  would  not 
frown,  but  rather  smile  on  me  3  therefore,  I  loved  and  praised 
Him  with  all  my  heart.  Some  years  after,  I  had  a  dream  of 
a  quite  different  sort.  I  dreamed  that  I  was  talking  with 
two  women  concerning  the  Day  of  Judgment.  Among  other 
things,  I  thought  1  told  them  I  was  certain  it  was  very  near. 
On  hearing  this,  I  thought  they  burst  into  laughter  and  re- 
jected all  I  said.  Being  much  grieved  at  this,  I  told  them,  e  I 
will  go  and  see  if  it  is  not  as  I  have  said.'  Accordingly  I  went 
to  the  door,  and  looking  up  southward,  I  thought  I  saw  the 
heavens  open,  and  a  stream  of  fire,  as  large  as  a  small  river, 
issuing  forth.  On  seeing  this,  I  thought  I  ran  back  to  the 
-women,  and  said,  '  You  would  not  believe  me,  but  come  to 
the  door  and  see  with  your  own  eyes  that  the  day  is  come.' 
On  hearing  this,  I  thought  they  were  much  alarmed,  and  ran 
with  me  to  the  door.  By  the  time  we  were  got  thither,  I 
thought  the  whole  concave,  southward,  was  filled  with  an 
exceeding  thick  fiery  mist,  which  swiftly  moved  northward, 
in  a  huge  body,  filling  the  whole  space  between  the  heavens 
and  the  earth  as  it  came  along.  As  it  drew  near,  I  thought, 
1  The  day  is  come,  of  which  I  have  so  often  told  the  world. 
And  now,  in  a  few  moments,  I  shall  see  how  it  will  be  writh 
me  to  all  eternity  ?  '  And  for  a  moment  I  seemed  to  feel 
myself  in  a  state  of  awful  suspense.  When  the  fire  was  come 
close  to  me,  I  was  going  to  shrink  back  •  but  thought,  'this 
is  all  in  vain,  as  there  is  now  no  place  of  shelter  left.'  I  then 
pushed  myself  forward  into  it,  and  found  that  the  fire  had  no 
power  to  hurt  me  5  for  I  stood  as  easy  in  the  midst  of  it  as 
ever  I  did  in  the  open  air.  The  joy  I  felt  on  being  able  to  stand 
unhurt  and  undismayed  amidst  this  awful  burning  cannot  be 
described.  Even  so  shall  it  be  with  all  who  are  careful  to 
enter  in  at  the  strait  gate,  and  to  walk  closely  and  steadily  in 
the  narrow  way  all  the  days  of  their  life 3  all  these  shall 

"  Stand  secure  and  smile, 
Amidst  the  jarring  elements, 
The  wreck  of  matter,  and  the  crush  of  worlds." 


222 


THE    POETS   OF  METHODISM. 


And  now,  the  dreamer  was  again  in  the  land  of  dreams 
and  visions  ;  standing  by  Wesley's  side,  looking  out  upon 
the  awful  multitude  in  the  hollow  valley  which  might 
remind  him  of  "  multitudes,  multitudes  in  the  valley  of 
decision  ;  "  recall  his  old  dreams  about  "  the  day  of  the  Lord 
in  the  valley  of  decision;"  and,  perhaps,  awaken  a  joy  at 
the  thought  that  during  the  course  of  his  twenty  years'  pil- 
grimage since  the  night  of  his  dream,  he  had  so  exercised  his 
hallowed  genius  as  to  supply  the  Methodists  with  music  as 
well  as  words  to  sing  in  jubilant  anticipation  of  the  Judg- 
ment. While  he  was  standing  on  Cornish  ground  once 
more,  people  were  everywhere,  through  the  kingdom,  sing- 
ing his  tune  to  his  grand  Judgment  Hymn — 

Come,  immortal  King-  of  Glory, 
Now  in  Majesty  appear ; 
Bid  the  nations  stand  before  Thee, 
Each  his  final  doom  to  hear ; 

Come  to  judgment, 
Come  Lord  Jesus,  quickly  come. 

Speak  the  word,  and  lo  !  all  nature, 
Flies  before  Thy  glorious  face, 
Angels  sing  your  great  Creator, 
Saints  proclaim  His  sovereign  grace, 

While  ye  praise  Him, 
Lift  your  heads  and  see  Him  come. 

See  His  beauty  all  resplendent, 
View  Him  in  His  glory  shine, 
See  His  majesty  transcendent, 
Seated  on  His  throne  sublime  : 

Angels  praise  Him, 
Saints  and  angels  praise  the  Lamb. 

Shout  aloud  ye  heavenly  choirs. 
Trumpet  forth  Jehovah's  praise  : 
Trumpets,  voices,  hearts,  and  lyres  ! 
Speak  the  wonders  of  His  grace  ! 

Sound  before  Him 
Endless  praises  to  His  name. 

Ransom'd  sinners,  see  His  ensign, 
Waving  thro'  the  purpled  air  ! 
'Midst  ten  thousand  lightnings  shining, 
Jesus'  praises  to  declare ; 

How  tremendous 
Is  this  dreadful,  joyful  day. 


A  CONTROVERSIAL  SONGSTER.  223 

Crowns  and  sceptres  fall  before  Him, 
Kings  and  conquerors  own  His  sway, 
Fearless  potentates  are  trembling, 
While  they  see  His  lightnings  play: 

How  triumphant 
Is  the  world's  Redeemer  now. 

Noon-day  beauty  in  its  lustre 
Doth  in  Jesu's  aspect  shine, 
Blazing  comets  are  not  fiercer 
Than  the  flaming  eyes  Divine : 

O  how  dreadful 
Doth  the  Crucified  appear. 

Hear  His  voice  as  mighty  thunder, 
Sounding  in  eternal  roar  t 
Far  surpassing  many  waters 
Echoing  wide  from  shore  to  shore  : 

Hear  His  accents 
Through  th'  unfathom'd  deep  resound. 

"  Come,"  He  saith,  "  ye  heirs  of  glory, 
Come,  the  purchase  of  my  blood  :j 
Bless'd  ye  are,  and  bless'd  ye  shall  be, 
Now  ascend  the  mount  of  God  ; 

Angels  guard  them 
To  the  realms  of  endless  day." 

See  ten  thousand  flaming  seraphs, 
From  their  thrones  as  lightnings  fly  ; 
"Take,"  they  cry,  "  your  seats  above  us, 
Nearest  Him  who  rules  the  sky : 

Favourite  sinners, 
How  rewarded  are  you  now !  " 

Haste  and  taste  celestial  pleasure ; 
Haste  and  reap  immortal  joys  ; 
Haste  and  drink  the  crystal  river  ; 
Lift  on  high  your  choral  voice, 

While  Archangels 
Shout  aloud  the  great  Amen.'* 

But  the  angry  Lamb's  determin'd 
Every  evil  to  descry  ; 
They  who  have  His  love  rejected 
Shall  before  His  vengeance  fly, 

When  He  drives  them 
To  their  everlasting  doom. 

Now,  in  awful  expectation, 
See  the  countless  millions  stand  ; 
Dread,  dismay,  and  sore  vexation, 
Seize  the  helpless,  hopeless  band ; 

Baleful  thunders, 
Stop  and  hear  Jehovah's  voice ! 


224  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

"  Go  from  me,"  He  saith,  "  ye  cursed — 
Ye  for  whom  I  bled  in  vain — 
Ye  who  have  my  grace  refused — 
Hasten  to  eternal  pain  !  " 

How  victorious 
Is  the  conquering  Son  of  Man  ! 

See,  in  solemn  pomp  ascending, 
Jesus  and  His  glorious  train  ; 
Countless  myriads  now  attend  Him, 
Rising  to  th'  imperial  plain; 

Hallelujah! 
To  the  bless'd  Immanuel's  name  1 

In  full  triumph  see  them  marching, 
Through  the  gates  of  massy  light ; 
"While  the  city  walls  are  sparkling 
With  meridian  glory  bright ; 

How  stupendous 
Are  the  glories  of  the  Lamb  ! 

On  His  throne  of  radiant  azure, 
High  above  all  heights  He  reigns — 
Reigns  amidst  immortal  pleasure, 
While  refulgent  glory  flames  ; 

How  diffusive 
Shines  the  golden  blaze  around  ! 

All  the  heavenly  powers  adore  Him, 
Circling  round  His  orient  seat; 
Ransom'd  saints  with  angels  vying, 
Loudest  praises  to  repeat ; 

How  exalted 
Is  His  praise,  and  how  profound  ! 

Every  throne  and  every  mansion, 
All  ye  heavenly  arches  ring; 
Echo  to  the  Lord,  salvation, 
Glory  to  our  glorious  King ! 

Boundless  praises 
All  ye  heavenly  orbs  resound ! 

Praise  be  to  the  Father  given, 
Praise  to  the  Incarnate  Son, 
Praise  the  Spirit,  One,  and  Seven, 
Praise  the  mystic  Three  in  One  ; 

Hallelujah ! 
Everlasting  praise  be  Thine  ! 

This  was   the    original    hymn,    first   issued    from    Leeds, 

about  four  years  after  the  hymnist's  Lord  had,   as   he  says, 

"  appeared  to  the  eye  of  his  mind  j"  and  a  few  years  after 

Charles  Wesley  had  published  his  hymn — 

Lo  !  He  comes  with  clouds  descending. 


A  CONTROVERSIAL  SONGSTER.  22  <J 

Another  edition  of  Olivers'  hymn  appeared,  "  altered  from 
the  original,"  and  with  an  addition  of  fifteen  stanzas.  In 
this  the  author  has,  here  and  there,  evidently  adopted  Charles 
Wesley's  expression.  His  first  hymn  remains  in  its  own 
native  grandeur. 

There  is  an  air  of  romance  about  the  story  of  Olivers' 
life,  a  mystery  about  the  life's  discipline,  which  prepared  him 
for  the  work  to  which  he  was  called,  when  his  varied  powers 
were  sanctified  by  the  saving  grace  of  God.  In  this  he 
was  like  most  of  his  contemporaries,  the  early  Methodist 
preachers.  Their  training  as  preachers  was  very  distinct 
from  that  of  more  modern  and  artificial  times.  It  was  most 
evidently  superintended  by  Him  who  had  unmistakably 
called  them,  and  "thrust  them  forth  as  labourers  into  His 
harvest." 

The  poet  was  a  native  of  Montgomeryshire.  He  was 
born  in  J 725.  He  was  fatherless  at  the  age  of  four  years 5  a 
few  months,  and  his  sorrow-stricken  mother  was  gone,  and 
then  he  was  cast  on  the  care  of  one  relation  after  another 
until  he  was  eighteen.  Defective  training  and  bad  example 
in  his  neighbours  made  him,  at  fifteen,  a  young  blasphemer. 
As  an  apprentice  to  a  shoemaker,  he  wasted  his  days  and 
nights  in  vice  and  folly.  Nevertheless,  he  was  susceptible 
of  love,  though  vicious  enough  to  be  murderously  cruel  to 
the  one  who  loved  him. 

"  For  four  or  five  years,"  says  he,  "  I  was  greatly  entan- 
gled with  a  farmer's  daughter,  whose  sister  was  married  to 
Sir  J.  P of  N n  in  that  county.     What 

11  Strange  reverse  of  ^human  fates  ! 

For  one  sister  was  wooed  by,  and  married  to,  a  baronet, 
esteemed  as  one  of  the  finest  men  in  the  county.     When 

she  died,  Sir  J was  almost  distracted.     Presently,  after 

her   funeral,  he  published  an  elegy  on  her  of  a  thousand 
verses  !     For  her  sake  he  said, 

"  O  that  the  fleecy  care  had  been  my  lot, 
Some  lonely  cottage  on  some  rerdant  spot  1 

a 


226  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  For  some  time  he  daily  visited  her  in  her  vault,  and  at 
last  took  her  up,  and  kept  her  in  his  bed-chamber  for  several 
years. 

"On  the  other  hand,  her  sister,  who  was  but  little  inferior 
in  person,  fell  into  the  hands  of  a  most  insignificant  young 
man,  who  was  a  means  of  drawing  her  almost  to  an  un- 
timely end.  I  cannot  omit  giving  some  intimation  of  this 
particular,  seeing  all  who  are  acquainted  with  my  former  life 
know  this  to  be  one  great  aggregate  of  my  folly  and  wicked- 
ness ;  and  seeing  it  is  that  which  lay  heaviest  on  my  mind, 
both  before  and  after  my  conversion  ,•  and  which  to  this  day 
I  remember  with  peculiar  shame  and  sorrow.  However, 
God,  who  often  brings  good  out  of  evil,  made  it  a  means 
(though  a  remote  one)  of  my  conversion.  For  such  was 
the  clamour  of  the  people,  and  the  uneasiness  of  my  own 
mind,  that  I  determined  to  leave  the  country. '' 

Now  he  entered  upon  his  wanderings  as  a  profane- 
tongued,  miserable  vagabond.  He  went  from  town  to  town, 
interrupting  Methodist  worship  with  indecency,  or  uttering 
blasphemies  in  church,  or  writhing  under  the  lash  of  con- 
science, or  trying  to  quiet  himself  by  reading  a  borrowed 
copy  of  a  ""Week's  Preparation  for  the  Holy  Sacrament,"  or 
contriving  and  committing  new  villanies.  At  one  time,  he 
would  horrify  the  profane  with  his  profanities  ;  and  at 
another,  secretly  acknowledge  the  good  influence  of  a 
Methodist  innkeeper ;  not  uncommonly  met  with  in  those 
days,  when  Methodism  understood  temperance  to  be  a 
Christian  virtue  essentially  accordant  with  pure  charity.  He 
finds  his  way  at  length  to  Bristol,  where,  after  being  robbed 
of  his  last  penny  by  a  sharper,  he  one  evening  met  a  multi- 
tude of  people.  "  I  asked  one  of  them,"  he  tells  us, 
"  where  they  had  been.  She  answered,  'to  hear  Mr.  Whit- 
field.' She  also  told  me  he  was  to  preach  the  next  night. 
I  thought,  ■  I  have  often  heard  of  Mr.  Whitfield,  and  have 
sung  songs  about  him  5  I  will  go  and  hear  what  he  has  to 
say."  Accordingly  I  went  the  next  evening,  but  was  too  late. 
The  following  evening  I  was  determined  to  be  in  time.     I 


i 


\     CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  227 

went  near  three  hours  before  the  time.     When   the  service 
began,  I  did  little  but  look  about  me;  but  on  seeing  the  tears 
trickle    down    the  cheeks  of  some   who  stood  near   me,   I 
became  more  attentive.      The  text  was,  '  Is  not  this  a  brand 
plucked  out  of  the  fire  ?'      When  this  sermon  began,  I  was 
certainly  a  dreadful  enemy  to  God,  and  to  all  that  is  good, 
and  one  of  the  most  profligate  and  abandoned  young  men 
living ;  but  by  the  time  it  was  ended,  I  was  become  a  new 
creature.     For,  in  the  first  place,  I  was  deeply  convinced  of 
the  great  goodness   of    God  towards  me   all   my  life ;    par- 
ticularly in  that  he  had  given  His  Son  to  die  for  me.       I  had 
also  a  far  clearer  view  of  all  my  sins  j  particularly  my  base 
ingratitude  towards  Him.     These  discoveries  quite  broke  my 
heart,  and  caused  showers  of  tears  to  trickle  down  my  cheeks. 
I  was  likewise  rilled  with  an  utter  abhorrence  of  my  evil 
ways,  and  was  much  ashamed  that  ever  I  had  walked  in 
them.     And  as  my  heart  was  thus  turned  from  all  evil,  so  it 
was  powerfully  inclined  to  all  that  is  good.     It  is  not  easy  to 
express  what  strong  desires  I  had  for  God  and  His  service  5  and 
what  resolutions  I  had  to  seek  and  serve  Him  in  future  :    in 
consequence  of  which  I  broke  off  all  my  evil  practices,  and 
forsook  all  my  wicked  and  foolish  companions  without  delays 
and  gave  myself  up  to  God  and  His  service  with  my  whole 
heart.     O  what  reason  have    I    say,   *  Is  not  this  a    brand 
plucked  out  of  the  fire? 

"  The  love  I  had  for  Mr.  Whitfield  was  inexpressible.  I 
used  to  follow  him  as  he  walked  the  streets,  and  could  scarce 
refrain  from  kissing  the  very  prints  of  his  feet.  And  as  to 
the  people  of  God,  I  dearly  loved  to  be  with  them,  and 
wished  to  be  a  member  of  their  society  ;  but  knew  not  how 
to  accomplish  it.  At  last  I  ventured  to  mention  it  to  one 
of  Mr.  Whitfield's  preachers;  but  he  discouraged  me,  and 
therefore  I  was  obliged  to  give  it  up." 

Shortly  after  this  he  left  Bristol,  and  found  his  way  to 
Bradford  in  Wiltshire.  Here  he  went  at  once  to  the 
Methodist  services.  He  longed  to  be  one  with  the  society, 
but   could   not  venture  to  offer  himself.     At  last,  he  was 


228  THE    POETS    OP    METHODISM. 

noticed,  and  asked  whether  he  wished  to  join  them.  "  My 
heart,"  he  says,  "leaped  for  joy.  They  took  me  to  the 
preacher,  who  gave  me  a  note  of  admittance.  As  I  returned 
home,  just  as  I  came  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  at  the  entrance 
of  the  town,  a  ray  of  light,  resembling  the  shining  of  a  star, 
descended  through  a  small  opening  in  the  heavens,  and  instan- 
taneously shone  upon  me.  In  that  instant  my  burden  fell 
off,  and  I  was  so  elevated  that  I  felt  as  if  I  could  literally 
fly  away  to  heaven.  This  was  the  more  surprising  to  me,  as 
I  had  always  been  (what  I  still  am)  so  prejudiced  in  favour 
of  rational  religion  as  not  to  regard  visions  or  revelations, 
perhaps,  so  much  as  I  ought  to  do.  But  this  light  was  so 
clear,  and  the  sweetness  and  other  effects  attending  it  were 
so  great,  that  though  it  happened  about  twenty-seven  years 
ago,  the  several  circumstances  thereof  are  as  fresh  in  my 
remembrance  as  if  they  had  happened  but  yesterday." 

The  renewal  of  his  heart  resulted  in  the  rapid  development 
of  his  mental  powers,  and  their  full  consecration  to  his 
Redeemer's  service.  He  lived  now  simply  to  get  and  to  do 
good.  His  trials,  however,  were  not  over.  His  discipline 
was  not  complete.  He  was  seized  with  small-pox,  and  was  so 
afflicted  as  to  become  loathsome  ;  was  blind  for  five  weeks ; 
and,  indeed,  was  looked  on  as  already  in  the  corruption  of 
the  grave.  The  physician  declared  that  though  he  had  been 
fifty  years  in  practice  he  never  saw  a  case  so  bad  as  this. 
One  good  Samaritan  there  was  who  came  to  him  in  his 
extremity,  the  venerable  and  beloved  Richard  Pearce,  the  land- 
lord of  the  "  Cross  Keys"  inn.  This  man  had  a  "  church  in 
his  house,"  inn  as  it  was  ;  a  church  that  was  often  met  in 
the  room  behind  the  bar  by  Wesley,  Romaine,  and  their 
apostolic  companions.  Richard  Pearce  was  one  of  the  most 
saintly  men  of  his  time.  He  befriended  the  sick  man. 
'Among  other  things,"  says  Olivers,  "he  asked  me  what 
money  I  had.  I  said,  '  But  little.'  He  then  encouraged  me 
not  to  fear,  telling  me  that  as  I  was  far  from  my  own 
country,  he  would  take  care  I  had  all  things  necessary. 
Accordingly  he  sent  me  one  of  the  best  nurses  in  the  town. 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  229 

He  next  sent  the  chief  apothecary  the  place  afforded  j  and 
lastly  Dr.  Clarke,  the  most  experienced  physician  in  all  that 
country." 

After  six  months  of  suffering  in  quiet  patience,  the 
recovered  man  rose  from  his  bed,  and  left  Bradford  to  visit 
his  native  place.  His  first  object  was  to  receive  a  small 
amount  of  property  which  his  father's  uncle  had  left  him, 
and  his  next  to  pay  all  the  debts  which  he  had  left  unpaid 
in  the  various  places  of  his  sojourn  during  his  life  of  sinful 
wandering.  He  accomplished  this ;  having  sold  his  horse, 
bridle,  and  saddle,  to  complete  the  settlement.  Wherever  he 
went,  he  preached  the  Gospel  which  had  set  him  free. 
Laughed  at,  threatened  with  imprisonment,  led  to  the  parish 
stocks,  he  still  pursued  what  he  believed  was  his  calling, 
until  he  worked  his  way  back  to  Bradford.  He  went  at 
once  to  the  "  Cross  Keys  "  to  ask  Mr.  Pearcefor  his  account. 
Pearce  declared  he  had  no  account  against  him.  He  then, 
with  what  means  he  had,  set  up  in  business.  But  before  he 
had  well  begun,  Mr.  Wesley,  whose  discernment  of  cha- 
racter and  fitness  for  Methodist  work  never  failed,  desired 
the  zealous  shoemaker  to  give  up  his  secular  calling  and  go 
at  once,  as  an  evangelist,  into  Cornwall.  This  was  to  him 
the  call  of  God.  "  I  was  not  able,"  he  tells  us,  "to  buy 
another  horse,  and  therefore,  with  my  boots  on  my  legs,  my 
great-coat  on  my  back,  and  my  saddle-bags  with  my  books 
and  linen  across  my  shoulder,  I  set  out  on  foot,  October  24th, 
1753"  He  footed  it  as  far  as  Tiverton,  in  Devon,  where  a 
friend  asked  why  he  had  no  horse.  The  reason  was  easily 
given.  "  Go  and  buy  one,"  it  was  said,  "and  it  shall  be  paid 
for."  Olivers  hesitated  ;  but  was  at  last  persuaded  to  accept 
the  offer.  "A  few  days  after," he  writes,  "I  went  with  a 
farmer  into  his  field.  In  a  few  minutes  a  colt,  about  two 
years  and  a  half  old,  came  to  me  and  put  his  nose  upon  my 
shoulder.  I  stroked  him  and  asked  the  farmer  what  he 
would  take  for  him.  He  said,  '  Five  pounds.'  We  struck  a 
bargain  at  once,  and  in  a  few  days  I  mounted  my  horse,  and 
have  kept  him  to  this  day ;  which  is  about  twenty-five  years. 


230  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

On  him  I  have  travelled  comfortably  not  less  than  a  hundred 
thousand  miles,  in  preaching  the  Gospel.  In  this,  also,  I 
see  the  hand  of  God  $  for  I  parted  with  one  horse  rather  than 
bring  a  reproach  on  the  Gospel ;  and  as  a  reward,  He  pro- 
vided me  with  such  another  as,  in  many  respects,  none  of  my 
brethren  could  ever  boast  of." 

He  had  now  farly  entered  on  his  life-work.  For  forty-six 
years  he  bore  "the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day."  With  a 
clear  and  strong  understanding,  a  ready  utterance,  and  cour- 
age that  never  flinched,  he  travelled  in  various  parts  of  Eng- 
land, Scotland,  and  Ireland  ;  and  amidst  all  the  exposures 
and  inconveniences  of  Methodist  itinerancy,  he  managed  to 
become  well-read  in  English  theology,  to  learn  enough  of  the 
original  languages  of  the  sacred  volume  to  make  him  a  suc- 
cessful student  of  God's  word,  a  powerful  defender  of  the 
doctrines  which  he  had  received,  and  an  energetic,  convinc- 
ing, and  fruitful  preacher  of  saving  truth.  Nor  was  his 
poetic  genius  allowed  to  lie  dormant.  It  was  cultured  and 
brought  into  exercise  for  his  Divine  Master's  sake.  He 
had  gone  from  Cornwall  to  Norfolk,  from  Norfolk  to  London, 
from  London  to  Ireland,  where  his  labours  were  chiefly 
about  Limerick,  Waterford,  and  Cork.  While  thus  engaged 
in  Ireland  his  tuneful  soul  put  forth  his  "  Hymn  of  Praise  to 
Christ." 


Our  hearts  and  hands  to  Christ  we  raise, 
In  honour,  blessing,  thanks,  and  praise; 
To  Christ  the  sinner's  only  Friend, 
Whose  love,  whose  praise,  shall  never  end. 
To  Christ  the  sinner's  only  Friend, 
Whose  love,  whose  praise,  shall  never  end. 
Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 

To  Christ  who  bought  us  with  His  blood, 
And  made  us  kings  and  priests  to  God, 
Be  everlasting  praises  given, 
By  all  on  earth,  and  all  in  heaven  ; 
Be  everlasting  praises  given, 
By  all  on  earth,  and  all  in  heaven. 
Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  2^1 

Hail!   Jesus,  all-atoning  Lamb ! 

We  magnify  Thy  wondrous  Name ; 

Thy  wondrous  Name  our  tongues  employ, 

In  hymns  of  everlasting  joy. 

Thy  wondrous  Name  our  tongues  employ, 

In  hymns  of  everlasting  joy. 

Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 

To  Thee  our  grateful  songs  arise, 
In  sounds  of  praise,  through  earth  and  skies  ; 
Let  all  the  ransom'd  race  adore, 
And  love  and  praise  Thee  evermore. 
Let  all  the  ransom'd  race  adore, 
And  love  and  praise  Thee  evermore. 
Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 

Let  all  Thy  flaming  hosts  above, 
Record  the  wonders  of  Thy  love; 
In  ceaseless  Hallelujahs  sing 
The  praise  of  our  eternal  King. 
In  ceaseless  Hallelujahs  sing; 
The  praise  of  our  eternal  King. 

Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 

Let  earth  and  heaven  with  one  accord, 
Resound,  Salvation  to  the  Lord  ! 
And  every  creature  join  to  bless 
The  Lord,  the  Lord,  our  Righteousness. 
And  every  creature  join  to  bless 
The  Lord,  the  Lord,  our  Righteousness. 
Hallelujah,  praise  the  Lord. 

This  spirited  outburst  of  his  loving  heart  and  warm  genius 
seems  to  have  struck  an  answering  chord  in  the  Irish  soul ; 
for  it  is  said  that  the  verses  were  set  to  music  by  an  Irish 
gentleman,  and  were  sung  in  anthem  style  before  the  Bishop 
of  Waterford  in  his  cathedral  on  Christmas  Day.  The  poet 
preacher,  on  his  return  from  Ireland,  was  again  in  London 
and  then  at  Leeds.  A  man  of  his  temperament  was  not 
likely  to  remain  in  celibacy.  The  questions  now  pressed 
themselves  upon  him,  "  Am  I  called  to  marry  ? "  If  so, 
"  What  sort  of  a  person  would  be  suitable  ? — what  sort  of 
a  person  would  Christ  choose  for  me?"  These  questions 
were  calmly  and  seriously  weighed.  The  necessary  qualities 
in  a  help-meet  for  him  were  considered,  and  as  the  result, 
"  I  immediately  turned  my  eyes  to  Miss  Green,"  he  says,  "  a 


232  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

person  of  a  good  family,  and  noted  through  all  the  North  of 
England  for  her  extraordinary  piety.  I  therefore  opened 
my  mind  to  her ;  and  after  consulting  Mr.  Wesley,  we  were 
married."  The  marriage  was  a  happy  one.  But  wedlock  is 
not  free  from  trials.  The  effects  of  his  severe  illness  at 
Bradford  still  lingered  about  him,  and  sometimes  threatened 
to  finish  his  career.  But  he  kept  in  the  saddle  through 
several  northern  counties j  and,  at  last,  in  improved  health, 
he  came  again  to  Bristol ;  and  here  he  seems  to  have  issued 
his  grandest  and  most  popular  hymn,  from  amidst  the  sor- 
rows of  bereavement.  He  had  seen  one  child  depart  from 
Bristol  to  its  rest ;  and  now  the  other  went.  Perhaps  these 
painful  proofs  of  his  pilgrim  state  served  to  brighten  his 
genius  as  well  as  tune  his  heart  for  the  lofty  and  thrilling 
strain  of  his  "  Hymn  to  the  God  of  Abraham." — 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise. 
Who  reigns  enthron'd  above  ; 
Ancient  of  everlasting  days, 
And  God  of  love : 
Jehovah — great  I  Am — 
By  earth  and  Heaven  confest ; 
I  bow  and  bless  the  sacred  Name, 
For  ever  bless'd. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
At  whose  supreme  command, 
From  earth  I  rise,  and  seek  the  joys 
At  His  right  hand  : 
I  all  on  earth  forsake, 
Its  wisdom,  fame  and  power ; 
And  Him  my  only  portion  make 
My  Shield  and  Tower. 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
Whose  all-sufficient  grace 
Shall  guide  me  all  my  happy  days, 
In  all  my  ways: 
He  calls  a  worm  His  friend ! 
He  calls  Himself  my  God  ! 
And  He  shall  save  me  to  the  end, 
Thro*  Jesu's  blood. 

He  by  Himself  hath  sworn ! 
I  on  His  oath  depend, 
I  shall  on  eagle's  wings  up-borne, 
To  Heaven  ascend : 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  233 

I  shall  behold  His  face, 
I  shall  His  power  adore, 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  His  grace 
For  evermore. 

Tho'  nature's  strength  decay, 
And  earth  and  hell  withstand, 
To  Canaan's  bounds  I  urge  my  way 
At  His  command  : 
The  wat'ry  deep  1  pass, 
"With  Jesus  in  my  view  ; 
And  thro'  the  howling  wilderness 
My  way  pursue. 

The  goodly  land  I  see, 
With  peace  and  plenty  bless'd; 
A  land  of  sacred  liberty 
And  endless  rest. 
There  milk  and  honey  flow, 
And  oil  and  wine  abound, 
And  trees  of  life  for  ever  grow, 
With  mercy  crown'd. 

There  dwells  the  Lord  our  King, 
The  Lord  our  Righteousness, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  world  and  sin, 
The  Prince  of  Peace : 
On  Sion's  sacred  heights 
His  kingdom  still  maintains  ; 
And  glorious,  with  His  saints  in  light 
For  ever  reigns. 

He  keeps  His  own  secure, 
He  guards  them  by  His  side, 
Arrays  in  garments  white  and  pure 
His  spotless  bride. 
With  streams  of  sacred  bliss, 
With  groves  of  living  joys, 
With  all  the  fruits  of  Paradise 
He  still  supplies. 

Before  the  great  Three-One 
They  all  exulting  stand ; 
And  tell  the  wonders  He  hath  done, 
Thro'  all  their  land  : 
The  list'ning  spheres  attend, 
And  swell  the  growing  fame  ; 
And  sing,  in  songs  which  never  end, 
The  wondrous  Name. 


2j4  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  God  who  reigns  on  high, 
The  great  Archangels  sing, 
And  "  Holy,  Holy,  Holy,"  cry, 
"  Almighty  King  ! 
Who  was,  and  is,  the  same ! 
And  evermore  shall  be  ; 
Jehovah — Father — Great  I  Am  ! 
We  worship  Thee." 

Before  the  Saviour's  face 
The  ransom'd  nations  bow ; 
O'erwhelm'd  at  His  Almighty  grace, 
For  ever  new : 
He  shows  His  prints  of  love — 
They  kindle — to  a  flame  ! 
And  sound  through  all  the  worlds  above, 
The  slaughter'd  Lamb. 

The  whole  triumphant  host 
Give  thanks  to  God  on  high  ; 
"  Hail,  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost !  " 
They  ever  cry : 
Hail,  Abraham's  God — and  mine.' 
I  join  the  heavenly  lays 
All  might  and  majesty  are  Thine, 
And  endless  praise. 

It  is  said  that  while  Olivers  was  visiting  his  friend  John 
Bakewell,  the  hymnist,  he  went  to  a  Jewish  synagogue,  and 
was  so  deeply  impressed  with  an  old  Hebrew  melody  sung 
by  Dr.  Leoni,  that  on  his  return  he  produced  the  stanzas 
which  are  metrically  adapted  to  the  admired  tune.  A  dis- 
tinguished hymn  writer  may  be  taken  as  a  critic  of  authority. 
"There  [is  not  in  our  language/' says  James  Montgomery, 
"  a  lyric  of  more  majestic  style,  more  elevated  thought,  or 
more  glorious  imagery  :  its  structure,  indeed,  is  unattractive  ; 
and,  on  account  of  the  short  lines,  occasionally  uncouth  ;  but, 
like  a  stately  pile  of  architecture,  severe  and  simple  in  design, 
it  strikes  less  on  the  first  view,  than  after  deliberate  examina- 
tion, when  its  proportions  become  more  graceful,  its  dimen- 
sions expand,  and  the  mind  itself  grows  greater  in  contem- 
plating it.  The  man  who  wrote  this  hymn  must  have 
had  the  finest  ear  imaginable ;  for  on  account  of  the  peculi- 
arity of  the  measure,  none  but  a  person  of  equal  musical  and 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER,  235 

poetic  taste  could  have  produced  the  harmony  perceptible 
in  the  verse." 

Olivers  lived  to  see  the  issue  of  at  least  thirty  editions  of 
his  hymn.  But  he  did  not  live  to  hear  all  the  soul-music 
which  his  hymn  has  awakened  among  the  spiritual  children 
of  faithful  Abraham,  on  their  way  from  every  scene  of  mortal 
life  to  their  home  beyond  the  flood.  Holy  women  and  con- 
secrated men  have  made  it  their  song  in  the  land  of  their 
pilgrimage  j  and  portions  of  it  have  formed  their  rinal  utter- 
ances of  triumph  in  crossing  the  border  of  their  inheritance. 

The  saintly  wife  of  that  saintly  man  who,  in  his  simple 
faith,  came  so  near  to  Abraham  himself,  William  Carvosso, 
of  Ponsanooth,  in  Cornwall,  was  called  for  the  last  eighteen 
months  of  her  life  to  extreme  suffering.  But  her  consolations 
abounded ;  so  that  her  sweet  singing  was  not  silenced  even 
by  strong  pain.  Often  were  parts  of  her  favourite  hymn 
heard  ringing  through  the  house.     Now,  it  would  be, — 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise, 
At  whose  supreme  command, 
From  earth  I  rise,  and  seek  the  joys 
At  His  right  hand  : 
I  all  on  earth  forsake, 
Its  wisdom,  fame,  and  power; 
And  Him  my  only  portion  make, 
My  Shield  and  Tower. 

and  then,  frequently — 

He  by  Himself  hath  sworn, 
I  on  His  oath  depend, 
I  shall,  on  eagle's  wings  up-borne, 
To  Heaven  ascend. 

Depending  on  that  Divine  oath,  she  herself  passed  into  her 
heaven. 

In  a  little  snug  retreat  under  a  hill-side,  near  Callington,  in 
the  West  of  England,  the  Methodist  preachers  used  to  be  en- 
tertained, with  motherly  affection,  by  the  aged  wife  of  Mr. 
Geake,  a  veteran  Methodist  leader  and  local  preacher.  When 
the  good  woman  was  young,  she  was  always  ready,  in  the 
warmth  of  her  zeal,  to  go  from  place  to  place  assisting  the 


236  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

preachers  by  the  use  of  her  fine  voice  in  singing.  And  now, 
when  beyond  eighty,  she  would  say,  "  My  voice  is  weak,  but 
I  can  sing  still,  my  heart  sings ;  and  often  of  an  evening  I 
lift  up  my  song." — "  Can't  you  give  me  a  morning  song  ?  " 
said  a  friend  one  day.  "  Yes,  I  think  I  can."  And  then,  in. 
a  thin,  tremulous  tone,  she  sang  her  favourite  hymn,  which 
she  said  Dr.  Adam  Clarke  had  taught  her,  while  she  was  a 
girl,  when  he  used  to  preach  in  her  father's  parlour.  It  was — 
The  God  of  Abraham  praise. 

The    Rev.   William    Worth,    when    about   to    finish   his 

Methodist  itinerancy,  had  been  lying  for  some  time  in  silence, 

as  though  he  were  listening  attentively.     At  length  he  said, 

"  Hark  !     Do  you  hear  that  sweet   music?" — "Yes,"    he 

added,  speaking  to  the  unseen,  "  precious  Saviour,  Thou  art 

mine  !  "     Then,  breaking  forth  into  praise,  he  exclaimed — 

u  1  shall  behold  His  face, 
I  shall  His  power  adore, 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  His  grace 
For  evermore  ! " 

"  Hark  !  "  he  cried  again  ;  "  Hallelujah  !  glory  !  glory  for 
ever  and  ever  !  " 

It  was  his  last  shout  as  he  passed  up  to  u  behold  His 
face." 

The  great  Methodist  theologian,  too,  Richard  Watson, 
after  a  life  of  holy  familiarity  with  "  the  cherubims  of  glory 
overshadowing  the  Mercy  Seat,"  came  to  the  end,  frequently 
giving  out  his  elect  song — 

I  shall  behold  His  face ! 

"When,"  said  he,  "shall  I  leave  this  tenement  of  clay  for 

the  wide  expanse  ?     When  shall  the  nobler  joys  open,  and  I 

see  my  God  ?  "     And  then  the  song  broke  forth  afresh — 

"  I  shall  behold  His  face ! 
I  shall  His  power  adore  ! 
And  sing  the  wonders  of  His  grace, 
For  evermore ! " 

A  few  years  after  the  publication  of  this  hymn,  the  poet 
was  stationed  at  Chester.     While  in  that  neighbourhood,  he 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  237 

visited  the  place  in  which  he  was  brought  up ;  and  his  pluck 
and  shrewd  logic  were  amusingly  brought  out  in  an  interview 
with  the  parish  parson. 

"I  hear  you  intend  to  preach  in  the  parish/'  said  he  to 
Olivers. 

"  I  do  j  yea,  and  think  it  my  duty  to  do  so." 

"  You  will  be  punished  if  you  do  !  " 

"  I  am  licensed,  and  therefore  will  not  be  hindered  by  any 
man  in  the  parish  ;  no,  nor  by  the  Primate  of  all  England ! 

"  But  the  divine  right  to  preach  is  found  only  in  the 
established  clergy  of  this  land  !  " 

"  Sir,''  was  the  closing  answer,  "  the  world  is  large,  of 
which  England  is  but  a  very  small  part — an  island  only, 
stuck  up,  as  it  were,  in  one  corner  of  it  !  And  as  to  its 
established  clergy,  you  know,  sir,  that  many  of  them  are 
worldly-minded  to  a  proverb  ;  yea,  that  multitudes  of  them 
are  drunkards,  swearers,  pleasure-takers,  &c.  5  and  yet  you 
tell  me  that  such  a  clergy  of  so  inconsiderable  a  corner  of  the 
world  are  the  only  ministers  of  God  ;  and  that  all  others  are 
intruders  and  deceivers  !  " 

Well  done,  Olivers !  The  figment  of  apostolical  suc- 
cession is  too  filmy  to  bear  the  touch  of  thy  common  sense  ! 

While  the  keen-witted  hymn-writer  was  at  Chester,  he 
seems  to  have  composed  the  only  other  hymn  of  his  that  has 
been  preserved.  At  the  end  of  a  short  account  of  the  death 
of  Mary  Langson,  who  died  January  29,  1769,  at  Foxall,  in 
-Cheshire,  there  were  the  following  verses  : — 

O  Thou  God  of  my  salvation, 

My  Redeemer  from  all  sin  ; 
Mov'd  by  Thy  divine  compassion, 

Who  hast  died  my  heart  to  win, 
I  will  praise  Thee  ; 

Where  shall  I  Thy  praise  begin 

Tho'  unseen,  I  love  the  Saviour, 

He  hath  brought  salvation  near, 
Manifests  His  pard'ning  favour  ; 

And  when  Jesus  doth  appear, 
Soul  and  body 

Shall  His  glorious  image  bear. 


238  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

While  the  angel  choirs  are  crying, 

Glory  to  the  great  I  Am, 
I  with  them  will  still  be  vieing, 

Glory,  glory,  to  the  Lamb  ! 
O  how  precious 

Is  the  sound  of  Jesus'  name. 

Angels'  now  are  hovering  round  us  ; 

Unperceived  they  mix  the  throng, 
Wondering  at  the  love  that  crowned  us, 

Glad  to  join  the  holy  song — 
Hallelujah ! 

Love  and  praise  to  Christ  belong  ! 

Now  I  see  with  joy  and  wonder 

Whence  the  gracious  spring  arose ; 
Angels'  minds  are  lost  to  ponder 

Dying  love's  mysterious  cause  ; 
But  the  blessing, 

Down  to  all,  to  me  it  flows. 

This  has  set  me  all  on  fire, 

Strongly  glows  the  flame  of  love  ; 
Higher  mounts  my  soul  and  higher, 

Struggles  for  its  swift  remove  ; 
Then  I'll  praise  Thee 

In  a  nobler  strain  above. 

This  hymn  has  on  it  the  impress  of  Olivers'  distinctive 
talent,  and,  probably,  was  attached  by  himself  to  the 
memorial  pamphlet  which  he  had  written. 

When  our  poet  had  become  unequal  to  the  toils  of 
itinerancy,  he  settled  in  London,  and  "  undertook,"  as  he 
says,  "the  care  of  Mr.  Wesley's  printing."  But  he  could 
make  fine  hymns  better  than  he  could  correct  for  the  press, 
for  under  the  date  of  August  8,  1789,  Mr.  Wesley  says  in 
his  journal  : — "  I  settled  all  my  temporal  business,  and,  in 
particular,  chose  a  new  person  to  prepare  the  Arminian 
Magazine,  being  obliged,  however  unwillingly,  to  drop  Mr. 
O for  only  these  two  reasons  :  1 .  The  errata  are  in- 
sufferable. I  have  borne  them  for  these  twelve  years,  but 
can  bear  them  no  longer.  2.  Several  pieces  are  inserted 
without  my  knowledge,  both  in  prose  and  verse.  I  must  try 
whether  these  things  cannot  be  amended  for  the  short  residue 
of  my  life." 


A    CONTROVERSIAL    SONGSTER.  2%(J 

Mr.    Wesley,    nevertheless,    loved    Olivers,     and    highly 

esteemed    his    powers   as    a    defender    of    true    Methodist 

doctrines.     Some  of  the  young  and  pert  opponents  of  these 

doctrines  affected  to  laugh  at  the  Arminian  champion ;  and 

even   Toplady  stooped   to  the  vulgarism  of  controversy,  by 

representing  the  venerable  Wesley  as  saying — 

I've  Thomas  Olivers,  the  cobler, 
No  stall  in  England  owns  a  nobler  ; 
A  wight  of  talents  universal, 
Whereof  I'll  give  a  brief  rehearsal : 
He  with  one  brandish  of  his  quill 
Will  knock  down  Toplady  and  Hill. 

This  was,  perhaps,  intended  as  a  parody  on  Wesley's  calm 
remark  at  one  point  of  the,  controversy  :  "  I  have  not  leisure 
to  consider  the  matter  at  large  ;  I  can  only  make  a  few 
strictures,  and  leave  the  young  man  to  be  further  corrected 
by  one  that  is  full  his  match,  Mr.  Thomas  Olivers."  Sir 
Richard  Hill,  too,  must  needs  throw  contempt  on  the  logical 
cobbler,  sneering  at  him,  as  "  one  Thomas  Oliver,  alias 
Olivers  "  ;  but  this  brought  from  the  saintly  Fletcher  a  fine 
testimony  to  the  varied  powers  and  consistent  character  of 
the  divinely-called  preacher  and  gifted  writer  and  hymnist. 
"  This  author  was,  twenty-five  years  ago,  a  mechanic,  and, 
like  *  one  '  Peter, '  alias  '  Simon,  a  fisherman,  and,  like  f  one  ' 
Saul,  '  alias '  Paul,  a  tent-maker,  has  had  the  honour  of  being 
promoted  to  the  dignity  of  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel ;  and  his 
talents  as  a  writer,  a  logician,  a  poet,  and  a  composer  of 
sacred  music,  are  known  to  those  who  have  looked  into  his 
publications." 

Olivers  outlived  his  friend  Wesley.  He  died  in  London, 
somewhat  suddenly,  in  March,  1799,  and  his  mortal  remains 
found  rest  in  Wesley's  own  tomb. 

The  old  songster's  last  effusion  was  "  A  Descriptive  and 
Plaintive  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  the  late  Reverend  John 
Wesley."  These  numerous  verses  are  valuable  as  a  record 
by  an  eye-witness  of  many  interesting  facts  illustrative  of  the 
life,  character,  and  influence  of  John  Wesley.  Some  of  them 
are  given  with  beauty  and  effect.     The  affections  of  the  poet 


24°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

dwell,  however,  on  so  many  particulars,  that  the  poem,  in 
some  parts,  fails  in  dignity,  and  becomes  defective  in  poetic 
spirit  and  musical  expression.  The  closing  stanzas  will  be 
sufficient  to  show  the  author's  feeling  and  manner,  as  well  as 
the  thought  and  sympathy  generally  awakened  by  the  depar- 
ture of  an  apostolic  man. 

The  pensive  dove,  whene'er  his  mate  is  fled, 
Coos  round  and  round,  then  droops  his  languid  head; 
And  shall  not  ice  complain,  who  feel  a  heavier  load  ? 
We  must — we  can't  refrain,  whilst  in  this  dark  abode. 

As  Israel  mourned  of  old,  his  fav'rite  gone ; 

As  Rachel  mourned  her  fertile  plains  along ; 

As  Mary  mourned  and  wept  beneath  her  Saviour's  cross ; 

So  we,  with  moans  and  tears,  will  now  lament  our  loss. 

But  though  we  now  lament,  the  day  is  nigh, 

"When  we  shall  meet  again,  above  the  sky  ; 

And  there  our  songs  unite,  and  join  the  radiant  throng, 

And  bow  before  the  throne,  and  bless  the  Great  Three-One. 

Then  let  us  still  maintain  the  truth  he  taught, 
And  faithful  prove  in  deed,  and  word,  and  thought ; 
The  path  he  trod  before,  let  us  through  life  pursue, 
And  help  each  other  on,  and  keep  the  prize  in  view. 

But  chiefly  zee,  who  bear  his  sacred  shame, 
Who  feed  his  flock,  and  still  revere  his  name, 
Let  us  unite  in  one,  and  strive  with  mutual  care 
To  help  his  children  on,  and  all  their  burdens  bear. 

For  this  let  us,  like  him,  the  world  disdain  ; 

For  this,  like  him,  rejoice  in  toil  and  pain ; 

Like  him,  be  bold  for  God ;  like  him,  our  time  redeem, 

And  strive,  and  watch,  and  pray,  and  live,  and  die  like  him. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  24I 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THREE     LAY    SINGERS. 

Moses,  the  minister  of  God, 

Rebukes  our  partial  love, 
Who  envy  at  the  gifts  bestow'd 

On  those  we  disapprove  : 
Shall  we  the  Spirit's  course  restrain, 

Or  quench  the  heavenly  fire  ? 
Let  God  His  messengers  ordain, 

And  whom  He  will  inspire. 


HE  wonderful  varieties  of  character,  opinion,  and 
talent,  which  were  more  or  less  closely  associated 
with  the  rise  of  Methodism,  form  a  study  at  once 
curious,  interesting,  and  instructive.  The  Wesleys 
and  Whitfield,  as  the  leaders  of  the  great  religious 
movement,  came  into  contact  with  human  nature  in  nearly 
all  its  shapes  and  conditions,  all  its  colourings  of  accomplish- 
ment and  manners,  and  all  its  degrees  of  native  power.  The 
distinctive  doctrines  of  Methodism  proper  seemed  to  rise  in 
clear  and  sharply  developed  form  from  amidst  the  chaotic 
heaving  and  whirls  of  theological  ages ;  and  so,  as  an  ex- 
perimental and  practical  system,  it  appeared  to  come  up 
shaped  and  toned  by  means  of  contributed  force  and  virtue 
from  all  sources  of  hallowed  and  even  unhallowed  intellect, 
endowment,  genius,  and  learning.  The  graceless  controver- 
sialist, Bishop  Warburton,  in  his  ''Doctrine  of  Grace,''  says 
that  "Mr.  William  Law  begat  Methodism,  and  Count  Zinzen- 
dorf  rocked  the  cradle,  while  the  Devil  acted  as  midwife  to 
Mr.  Wesley's  new-born  babes.''  This  is  a  lampoon  in  the 
naturally  coarse  style  of  an   unscrupulous  scribbler,  and  a 

R 


THE   I'OETS  OF   METHODISM. 

would-be  wit ;  but  it  indicates  the  relations  of  early- 
Methodism  to  a  grotesque  variety  of  things,  and  touches  the 
fact,  that  some  of  the  worst  manifestations  of  error  and  ill- 
will — Bishop  Warburton's  temper  among  the  rest — served  to 
promote  the  good  which  the  first  Methodists  had  so  much 
at  heart.  It  is  curious  to  watch  the  Wesleys,  as,  by  turns, 
they  have  to  do  with  English  bishops  and  mystic  dreamers, 
Moravian  dignitaries  and  converts  from  among  the  aristocracy 
of  England,  Presbyterian  saints,  comic  authors  and  mimics, 
sceptical  philosophers,  masters  in  science,  and  literary  giants ; 
with  legislators  and  philanthropists,  saintly  women  in  high 
life  and  hallowed  geniuses  in  servitude  and  obscurity ; 
orthodox  royalists  and  northern  Jacobites.  It  is  deeply  in- 
structive, however,  to  see  how  all  these  varieties  were  made, 
willingly  or  unwillingly,  to  subserve  the  great  object  at  which 
the  holy  men  steadily  aimed,  and  from  which  no  heterogeneous 
claims  of  outside  character.,  opinion,  or  influence,  could  ever 
withdraw  their  simple  and  earnest  bent.  Among  the  varieties 
of  genius,  learning,  and  friendly  sympathy  which  gathered 
around  the  "Wesleys,  one  character  was  remarkable  in  many 
respects. 

In  the  early  part  of  1739,  a  group  which  would  fix  atten- 
tion at  first  sight,  was  seen  one  day  walking  out  from  Little 
Britain  in  the  direction  of  Islington,  then  a  north  suburb  of 
London.  There  were  three  persons.  One  was  a  small,  neat, 
clerical  figure,  with  cravat  and  ruffles  the  very  patterns  of 
neatness;  another  was  similar  in -size  and  appearance;  but 
the  third  was  uncommonly  tall ;  and  served,  by  the  side  of 
the  others,  to  form  a  somewhat  amusing  contrast.  He  carried 
a  crook-topped  stick,  and  wore  a  curious  low-polled  slouched 
hat,  from  under  the  long-peaked  front  brim  of  which  his  be- 
nignant face  bent  forward  a  cautiously  inquisitive  kind  of 
look,  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit  of  prying  into  everything, 
without  caring  to  let  everything  enter  deeply  into  him.  The 
comparatively  short  clergyman  was  John  Wesley.  His 
towering  companion  was  John  Bvrom,  of  Manchester,  who, 
among  the  jottings  in  his  journal  for  February  7th,  1739, 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  243 

says,  "  Walked  with  John  Wesley  and  another  young  fellow 
from  Mr.  Bray's  to  Islington." 

Byrom  was  at  this  time  about  forty-eight  years  of  age,  and 
was  therefore  much  John  Wesley's  senior,  and  old  enough 
to  think  of  his  other  clerical  companion  as  a  "young  fellow." 
The  tall  genius  had  been  trained  at  Cambridge,  and  had  been 
introduced  to  the  Wesleys  and  their  godly  companions  at 
Oxford,  when  they  were  becoming  marked  as  the  leaders  of 
the  Methodist  Club.  He  had  taken  an  early  turn  in  favour  of 
spiritual  religion,  and  his  religious  views  and  feelings  had 
become  so  different  to  those  of  most  of  the  clergy  in  his  day 
that  he  shrank  from  identifying  himself  with  them  by  taking 
orders,  and  at  last  resigned  his  fellowship  and  sacrificed  the 
prospect  of  Church  honours  and  emoluments.  Familiarity 
with  the  writings  of  the  German,  French,  and  English  mystics 
deepened  his  attachment  to  spiritual  pursuits,  and  prepared 
him  for  warm  sympathy  with  the  views  and  experiences  of 
the  first  Methodists.  He  sought  their  society,  and  was  happy 
to  be  known  as  their  friend.  Though  never  so  far  identified 
with  them  as  to  be,  in  the  strict  sense,  a  member  of  the 
Methodist  Society,  yet  he  was  bound  to  them  by  ties  so  close 
and  inseparable  that  it  is  impossible  to  lose  sight  of  him 
among  the  early  poets  of  Methodism.  Really  affectionate  as 
was  the  friendship  between  Byrom  and  John  Wesley,  their 
views  were  so  irreconcilable  on  some  of  the  mystic  doctrines, 
and  their  characters  were  so  differently  shaped,  that  unitv  in 
Methodist  action  was,  perhaps,  impracticable.  The  differences 
between  them  are  given  in  graphic  style  in  Byrom's  jottings 
of  an  interview  in  Manchester  between  Mr.  Wesley,  Mr. 
Phillips,  and  himself.  The  characteristic  firmness,  clear 
sense,  strong  will  in  the  pursuit  of  his  object,  unflinching 
devotion  to  genuine  truthfulness,  and  pure  practical  piety  on 
the  part  of  Wesley,  are  placed  side  by  side  with  that  sprightly, 
somewhat  whimsical,  but  good-natured  genius,  that  kind  of 
learned  indifference,  cultured  ease,  and  pious  quietude  of 
spirit,  which  are  drawn  so  finely,  and  with  such  finish,  in 
Byrom's  own  poem  on  '*  Careless  Content." 


244  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care, 

Wag  as  it  will  the  world  for  me ; 

When  fuss  and  fret  was  all  my  fare, 
It  got  no  ground,  as  I  could  see : 

So  when  away  my  caring  went, 

I  counted  cost,  and  was  content. 

With  more  of  thanks  and  less  of  thought, 
I  strive  to  make  my  matters  meet; 

To  seek  what  ancient  sages  sought, 
Physic  and  food,  in  sour  and  sweet : 

To  take  what  passes  in  good  pait, 

And  keep  the  hiccups  from  the  heart. 

With  good  and  gentle-humoured  hearts, 
I  choose  to  chat  where'er  I  come ; 

Whate'er  the  subject  be  that  starts  ; 
But  if  I  get  among  the  glum, 

I  hold  my  tongue  to  tell  the  troth, 

And  keep  my  breath  to  cool  my  broth. 

For  chance  or  change,  of  peace  or  pain  ; 

For  Fortune's  favour  or  her  frown  ; 
For  lack  or  glut,  for  loss  or  gain, 

I  never  dodge,  nor  up  nor  down : 
But  swing  what  way  the  ship  shall  swim, 
Or  tack  about  with  equal  trim. 

I  suit  not  where  I  shall  not  speed, 
Nor  trace  the  turn  of  ev'ry  tide  ; 

If  simple  sense  will  not  succeed, 
I  make  no  bustling,  but  abide : 

For  shining  wealth,  or  scaring  woe, 

I  force  no  friend,  I  fear  no  foe. 

Of  nps  and  downs,  of  ins  and  outs, 

Of  they're  V  th'  wrong,  and  we're  i'  lh'  right, 

I  shun  the  rancours,  and  the  routs, 
And  wishing  well  to  every  wight, 

Whatever  turn  the  matter  takes, 

I  deem  it  all  but  ducks  and  drakes. 

With  whom  I  feast,  I  do  not  fawn, 

Nor  if  the  folks  should  flout  me,  faint  ; 

If  wonted  welcome  be  withdrawn, 
I  cook  no  kind  of  a  complaint : 

With  none  dispos'd  to  disagree, 

But  like  them  best  who  best  like  me. 

Not  that  I  rate  myself  the  rule 

How  all  my  betters  should  behave ; 

But  fame  shall  find  me  no  man's  fool, 
Nor  to  a  set  of  men  a  slave : 

I  love  a  friendship,  free  and  frank, 
And  hate  to  hang  upon  a  hank. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  24  <J 

Fond  of  a  true  and  trusty  tie, 

I  never  loose  where'er  I  link ; 
Though  if  a  bus'ness  budges  by, 

I  talk  thereon  just  as  I  think : 
My  word,  my  work,  my  heart,  my  hand, 
Still  on  a  side  together  stand. 

If  names  or  notions  make  a  noise, 

Whatever  hap  the  question  hath, 
The  point  impartially  I  poise, 

And  read,  or  write,  but  without  wrath  ; 
For  should  I  burn  or  break  my  brains, 
Pray,  who  will  pay  me  for  my  pains  ? 

I  love  my  neighbour  as  myself, 

Myself  like  him  too,  by  his  leave; 
Nor  to  his  pleasure,  pow'r,  or  pelf, 

Came  I  to  crouch,  as  I  conceive : 
Dame  Nature  doubtless  has  design'd 
A  man  the  monarch  of  his  mind. 


Now  taste  and  try  this  temper,  sirs, 
Mood  it,  and  brood  it  in  your  breast ; 

Or  if  ye  ween,  for  worldly  stirs, 
That  man  does  right  to  mar  his  rest, 

Let  me  be  deft,  and  debonair, 

1  am  content,  I  do  not  care. 


The  Mr.  Bray  from  whose  house  the  poet  says  he  walked 
with  John  Wesley  to  Islington  was  a  brazier  in  Little 
Britain,  a  Moravian,  "  a  poor,  ignorant  mechanic,  who  knows 
nothing  bat  Christ,''  says  Charles  Wesley,  "  yet,  by  knowing 
Him,  knows  and  discerns  all  things."  The  doctor  very 
highly  esteemed  this  man,  and  tells  Mrs.  Byrom  that  he  found 
the  Bishop  of  Ely  "very  civil,  affable,  and  conversable;  but," 
he  adds,  "  I  confess  myself  full  as  well  pleased  with  the  sen- 
timents of  the  poor  brazier.  He  talks  more  like  a  bishop, 
in  one  sense." 

The  name  of  Byrom  wiil  ever  live  as  a  "  grand  master  "  of 
•shorthand  writing.  In  this  character  his  relation  to  the 
Wesleys  is  deeply  interesting.  Their  journals  and  their 
poetry  were  committed  to  paper  in  the  shorthand  style,  which 
they  had  learnt  to  use  with  freedom  under  his  mastership. 


246  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  doctor,  who  threw  most  of  his  learned  lessons  into  verse, 
recommended  shorthand  to  poets: — 

Consider  how  the  shorthand  scheme,  in  part, 
May  be  applied  to  the  poetic  art. 


Form  to  yourself,  directly,  the  design 
Of  so  constructing  a  poetic  line ; 
That  it  may  cost,  in  writing  it  our  way, 
The  least  expense  of  ink,  as  one  may  say. 

Charles  Wesley  acted  on  his  advice,  and  jotted  most  of  his 
hymns  in  shorthand,  just  as  they  arose  in  his  mind.  But 
Byrom  was  associated  with  early  Methodism  more  closely  as 
a  poet  than  as  a  teacher  of  shorthand.  His  hand  was  in  the 
earliest  issue  of  religious  poetry  by  the  Wesleys.  To  the 
first  volume  of  that  long  succession  of  spiritual  song-books 
by  which  the  private  and  public  Methodist  hymn  service  was 
sustained,  the  mystic  and  scholarly  Manchester  man  con- 
tributed. His  friends,  the  Wesleys,  had  asked  for  some 
hymns  from  his  pen.  He  sent  his  translation  of  two  hymns 
from  the  French  of  Madame  Bourignon,  and  wrote  like  a 
kind-hearted,  discriminating,  tasteful,  and  judicious  friend. 
The  brothers  evidently  profited  by  the  doctor's  advice. 
However  mystical  the  Frenchwoman  might  be  who  wrote 
the  original  hymns  which  Byrom  had  rendered  into  English, 
she  had  a  spirituality  and  heavenliness  of  soul  which  did  not 
cease  to  find  an  echo  from  the  kindred  minds  of  Methodism 
for  many  generations.  Nor  has  Byrom  failed,  as  a  translator, 
to  kindle  a  delicate  warmth  of  devotion,  like  that  of  the 
mystic  hymnist,  in  the  hearts  of  all  who  sing  his  verses 
"  with  the  spirit,  and  with  the  understanding  also." 

On  July  12,  1773,  John  Wesley  was  trotting  on  his  way 
from  Liverpool  to  Birmingham.  "  In  my  journey,"  he  tells 
us,  "  I  read  Dr.  Byrom's  poems.  He  has  all  the  wit  and 
humour  of  Dr.  Swift,  together  with  much  more  learning,  a 
deep  and  strong  understanding,  and,  above  all,  a  serious  vein 
of  piety.  .  .  We  have  some  of  the  finest  sentiments  that  ever 
appeared  in  the  English  tongue  ;  some  of  the  noblest  truths 


THREE     LAY    SINGERS.  247 

expressed  with  the  utmost  energy  of  language,  and  the 
strongest  colours  of  poetry."  To  John  Wesley's  high 
esteem  and  affection  for  the  Manchester  poet,  the  Methodists 
owe  the  insertion,  in  their  authorised  hymn-book,  of  the  now 
well-known  hymn,  which  has  helped  so  many  winged  souls  in 
their  upward  pursuit  of  entire  holiness.  The  hymn  as  now 
sung  has,  by  alteration,  been  made  to  accord  with  the 
Wesleys'  taste  and  judgment.  Whether  their  taste  and 
judgment  were  really  superior  to  the  translator's,  might  have 
been  a  question  with  him,  and  may  be  to  some  others  a 
question  still.  One  likes  to  catch  the  feeling,  and  to  breathe 
the  music,  as  it  flowed  from  the  hallowed  genius  who  had 
such  sympathy  with  the  French  singer. 

Come,  Saviour  Jesus  !  from  above 
Assist  me  with  Thy  heavenly  grace ; 

Withdraw  my  heart  from  worldly  love, 
And  for  Thyself  prepare  the  place. 

Lord  !  let  Thy  sacred  presence  fill, 

And  set  my  longing  spirit  free, 
That  pants  to  have  no  other  will, 

But  night  and  day  to  think  on  Thee. 

Where'er  Thou  leadest,  I'll  pursue, 
Through  all  retirements  or  employs ; 

But  to  the  world  I'll  bid  adieu, 
And  all  its  vain  delusive  joys. 

That  way  with  humble  speed  I'll  walk 
Wherein  my  Saviour's  footsteps  shine; 

Nor  will  I  hear,  nor  will  I  talk, 
Of  any  other  love  but  Thine. 

To  Thee  my  longing  soul  aspires  ; 

To  Thee  I  offer  all  my  vows: 
Keep  me  from  false  and  vain  desires, 

My  God,  my  Saviour,  and  my  Spouse ! 

Henceforth  let  no  profane  delight, 

Divide  this  consecrated  soul ! 
Possess  it  Thou,  who  hast  the  right 

As  Lord  and  Master  of  the  whole. 

Wealth,  honours,  pleasures,  or  what  else 

This  short-enduring  world  can  give, 
Tempt  as  they  will,  my  heart  repels 

To  Thee  alone  resolved  to  live. 


248  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Thee  one  may  love,  and  Thee  alone, 

With  inward  peace  and  holy  bliss ; 
And  when  Thou  tak'st  us  for  Thy  own, 

Oh  !  what  a  happiness  is  this! 

Nor  heaven,  nor  earth,  do  I  desire, 

Nor  mysteries  to  be  revealed  ; 
'Tis  love  that  sets  my  heart  on  fire  : 

Speak  Thou  the  word,  and  I  am  hcal'd. 

All  other  graces  I  resign  ; 

Pleas'd  to  receive,  pleas'd  to  restore  : 
Grace  is  Thy  gift,  it  shall  be  mine 

The  Giver  only  to  adore. 

The  poetical  doctor  was  very  much  in  London  during 
1739,  and  continually  came  into  agreeable  intercourse  with 
the  leaders  of  Methodism.  Now  he  is  in  some  coffee-house, 
mingling  with  literary  and  scientific  men,  legislators,  and 
wits  j  now  he  finds  his  way  to  Bray's,  the  brazier  in  Little 
Britain,  meeting  Charles  Wesley  there,  and  taking  tea  with 
him  5  and  now  working  hard  as  a  shorthand  teacher,  to  get 
bread  and  butter  for  his  Manchester  household.  Amidst  all 
his  varied  action,  however,  the  spiritual  with  him  was  ever 
above  the  temporal.  As  he  moved  about,  he  longed  for 
retirement  with  God,  and  rilled  up  the  time  of  street  travel 
with  prayer  and  hymns  of  desire.  One  of  the  outpourings  of 
his  soul,  during  his  hurry  to  and  fro,  is  found  among  his 
hasty  jottings — and  beautiful  it  is — as  silently  breathed 
before  God,  amidst  the  stirring  multitudes  of  the  great  city. 
He  calls  it  "A  Penitential  Soliloquy." 

What !  tho'  no  objects  strike  upon  the  sight ! 
Thy  sacred  presence  is  an  inward  light ! 
What !  tho'  no  sounds  should  penetrate  the  ear  ! 
To  list'ning  thought,  the  voice  of  truth  is  clear ! 
Sincere  devotion  needs  no  outward  shrine  ; 
The  centre  of  an  humble  soul  is  Thine  ! 

There  may  I  worship  !  and  there  may'st  Thou  place 

Thy  seat  of  mercy,  and  Thy  throne  of  grace  ! 

Yea,  fix,  if  Christ,  my  Advocate,  appear, 

The  dread  tribunal  of  Thy  justice  there  : 

Let  each  vain  thought,  let  each  impure  desire, 

Meet  in  Thy  wrath  with  a  consuming  fire. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  249 

Whilst  the  kind  rigours  of  a  righteous  doom 
All  deadly  filth  of  selfish  pride  consume, 
Thou,  Lord,  canst  raise,  tho'  punishing  for  sin, 
The  joys  of  peaceful  penitence  within  : 
Thy  justice  and  Thy  mercy  both  are  sweet, 
That  make  our  sufferings  and  salvation  meet. 

Befall  me,  then,  whatever  God  shall  please! 

His  wounds  are  healing,  and  His  griefs  give  ease  : 

He,  like  a  true  physician  of  the  soul, 

Applies  the  med'cine  that  may  make  it  whole : 

I'll  do,  I'll  suffer  whatsoe'er  He  wills  ; 

I  see  His  aim  thro'  all  these  transient  ills. 

'Tis  to  infuse  a  salutary  grief, 

To  fit  the  mind  for  absolute  relief  : 

That,  purged  from  every  false  and  finite  love, 

Dead  to  the  world,  alive  to  things  above, 

The  soul  may  rise,  as  in  its  first  form'd  youth, 

And  worship  God  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 

The  bonds  of  love  which  held  their  poetic  friend  so  close  to 
the  Wesleys  were  tested,  not  merely  by  different  theological 
leanings,  but  by  dissimilar  political  attachments.  The  doctor 
was  well  known  to  be  warmly  in  favour  of  the  House  of 
Stuart.  He  had  gone  into  France  in  earlier  life,  for  the  sake 
of  avoiding  any  unpleasant  experiences  which  his  principles 
might  entail.  And  when,  in  1745,  the  Pretender  marched 
into  Manchester,  he  was  among  those  who  gave  him  wel- 
come. His  friend,  John  Wesley,  had,  a  few  weeks  before, 
declared  to  public  authority  :  "  All  I  can  do  for  his  Majesty, 
whom  I  honour  and  love,  is  to  cry  unto  God  day  by  day,  in 
public  and  in  private,  to  put  all  his  enemies  to  confusion." 
And  about  the  time  that  Byrom  was  walking  out  in  Man- 
chester with  his  family,  and  Wesley's  old  friend,  Clayton,  to 
hear  the  Pretender  proclaimed,  John  Wesley  was  quietly 
engaged  in  London,  finishing  his  "  Farther  Appeal  to  Men  of 
Reason  and  Religion  "  ;  and  his  brother  Charles  was  "  pray- 
ing with  Bridget  Armstead,  full  of  desire  to  be  dissolved  !  " 

At  this  time  Byrom  had  come  into  family  property,  and 
was  living  in  the  pleasant  country  retreat  of  Kersal-Cell,  a 
little  way  out  from  the  old  busy  town.  His  decided  exhibi- 
tion of  good  will  to  the  Stuarts  necessarily  involved  him  in 


2JJO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

awkward  circumstances  at  times  ;  and  it  is  said  that  on  one 
occasion,  when  a  toast  to  the  king  was  called  for,  and  to 
withhold  it  might  be  somewhat  dangerous;  or  when  the 
introduction  of  the  Pretender's  claims  had  threatened  to 
result  in  serious  strife,  he  escaped  the  difficulty,  or  hushed 
the  rising  storm,  by  flinging  out  a  clever  stanza,  impromptu : 

God  bless  the  king — I  mean  the  Faith's  defender ; 
God  bless — no  harm  in  blessi-ig — the  Pretender; 
But  who  Pretender  is,  or  who  is  king — 
God  bless  us  all — that's  quite  another  thing ! 

But  Byrom  never  ceased  to  be  distinguished  as  a  Christian, 
and  therefore  never  lost  the  comfort  of  pleasant  intercourse 
with  the  Wesleys.  In  May,  174S,  "  I  dined,"  he  says,  "  with 
Col.  Gumby  and  Charles  Wesley,  and  went  with  them  to 
the  Methodist  Church — English  Common  Prayers — he 
preached."  The  Methodist  Church  to  which  he  went  would 
be  the  celebrated  "  Foundry,"  in  Moorrields. 

Ten  years  later,  a  gentleman  who  had  accompanied  John 
Wesley  to  Ireland,  writes  to  Byrom  :  "  I  found  Mr.  Wesley 
just  ready  to  take  horse.  I  gave  your  love  to  him,  as  you 
desired,  and  he  was  glad  I  had  been  to  see  you,  for,  notwith- 
standing any  little  differences  in  opinion,  I  lind  he  loves  you 
sincerely,  which  I  was  glad  to  see."  Thus  associated  with 
Methodism,  the  venerable  and  saintly  old  genius  reached  the 
age  of  seventy-two.  He  was  cheerful  and  calm,  and  still  a 
joy  to  young  people.  In  affliction  he  was  resigned  ;  and  the 
piety  which  hallowed  his  youth  now  filled  him  with  holy 
delight.  His  character,  at  the  last,  was  a  beautiful  example 
of  what,  many  years  before,  he  had  expressed  a  desire  for,  in 
one  of  his  translations  from  the  German  ;  and  his  last  utter- 
ances were  anticipated  in  that  hymn. 

Jesu,  teach  this  heart  of  mine 

True  simplicity  to  find  ; 
Childlike,  innocent,  divine, 

Free  from  guile  of  every  kind. 
And  since,  when  amongst  us,  vouchsafing  to  live, 
So  pure  an  example  it  pleased  Thee  to  give  ; 
O,  let  me  keep  still  the  bright  pattern  in  view, 
And  be,  after  Thy  likeness,  right  simple  and  true. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  2JI 

When  I  read,  or  when  I  hear, 

Truths  that  kindle  good  desires, 
How  to  act,  and  how  to  bear, 

What  heaven-instructed  faith  requires, 
Let  no  subtle  fancies  e'er  lead  me  astray, 
Or  teach  me  to  comment  Thy  doctrines  away  ; 
No  reas'nings  of  selfish  corruption  within, 
Nor  slights  by  which  Satan  deludes  us  to  sin. 

Whilst  I  pray  before  Thy  face, 

Thou,  who  art  my  highest  good, 
O,  confirm  to  me  the  grace 

Purchas'd  by  Thy  precious  blood  ; 
That,  with  a  true  filial  affection  of  heart, 
I  may  feel  what  a  real  Redeemer  Thou  art ; 
And,  thro'  Thy  atonement  to  justice  above, 
Be  receiv'd  as  a  child  by  the  Father  of  love. 

Give  me,  with  a  child-like  mind, 

Simply  to  believe  Thy  word  ; 
And  to  do  whate'er  I  find 

Pleases  best  my  dearest  Lord  ; 
Resolving  to  practice  Thy  gracious  commands; 
To  resig-n  mvself  wholly  up  into  Thy  hands  ; 
That,  regarding  Thee  simply  in  all  my  employ, 
I  may  cry,  Abba!  Father  !  with  dutiful  joy. 

Nor  within  me,  nor  without, 

Let  hypocrisy  reside ; 
But  whate'er  I  go  about, 
Mere  simplicity  be  guide. 
Simplicity  guide  me  in  word,  and  in  will, 
Let  me  live — let  me  die — in  simplicity  still ; 
Of  an  epitaph  made  me,  let  this  be  the  whole — 
Here  lies  a  true  child  that  was  simple  of' soul. 

Jesu  !  now  I  fix  my  heart, 

Prince  of  Life,  and  Source  of  Bliss  ; 
Never  from  Thee  to  depart 

Till  Thy  love  shall  grant  me  this. 
Then,  then,  shall  my  heart  all  its  faeulties  raise, 
Both  here,  and  hereafter,  to  sing  to  Thy  praise. 
Oh,  joyful  !  my  Saviour  says,  50  let  it  be  ; 
Amen,  to  my  soul — Hallelujah  !  to  Thee. 

The  lay  singers  of  Methodism,  as  well  as  its  tuneful 
"pastors  and  teachers/'  have  been  marked  by  variety  of 
character,  ability,  accomplishment,  and  position.  Among 
them,  as  in  all  other  classes  of  human  life,  the  law  of  com- 
pensation has  ever  shown  itself  in  action,  so  that  when  there 


»5a  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

have  not  been  all  the  versatile  genius  and  various  learning  of 
a  Byrom,  the  balance  has  been  kept  by  a  more  intense  and 
unreserved  devotion  of  the  fewer  talents  to  one  supreme  and 
sacred  purpose.  If  the  poetic  power  has  been  less  sparkling, 
or  less  flexible,  it  has  been  exercised  to  the  uttermost  in  ful- 
filling its  own  task,  and  has  had  its  more  accumulative  fruit 
from  the  purity,  simplicity,  and  oneness  of  its  aim. 

The  note  book  of  one  who  used,  some  years  ago,  to  be 
often  on  the  roads,  has  various  jottings  about  parts  of 
Lincolnshire ;  among  the  rest,  this :  u  I  was  dropped  at 
Spilsby.  While  waiting  for  a  carriage  to  take  me  on  to  Old 
Bolingbroke,  where  I  waited  to  see  whether  anything  re- 
mained of  the  old  castle  in  which  Henry  III.  was  born,  and 
from  which  the  St.  Johns  took  their  title,  I  walked  about 
the  little  town.  There  was  a  memorial  of  poor  Franklin,  the 
explorer  of  the  north  seas  5  and  there  was  the  house  in 
which  they  said  he  was  born.  I  stood  thinking  whether 
there  could  be  anything  in  this  flat  fenny  Lincolnshire  favour- 
able to  the  production  of  men  of  power  such  as  he — men  such 
as  Hereward  and  his  fellow-heroes,  the  mighty  Cromwell  and 
his  companion  '  committee-men,'  and  ironside  captains,  the 
sturdy  theologues  such  as  John  Horn  of  Old  Bolingbroke,  and 
that  family  of  still  growing  power  for  good  to  the  church  and 
the  world,  the  Wesley s.  My  ruminations  were  disturbed 
by  a  message,  '  The  carriage  is  waiting,  sir  ! '  I  mounted 
and  was  off ;  soon  found  myself  getting  up  out  of  the  levels, 
and,  rising  gently,  was  soon  on  the  chalk  formations.  When 
about  two  miles  or  more  out  of  Spilsby,  my  eye  caught  a 
patch  of  foliage  on  the  right.  There  was  a  village  j  but  there 
seemed  to  be  a  gentleman's  country-house,  with  its  woods 
and  copsy  surroundings. — '  What  place  is  that  ? ' 

"  '  That's  Raithby  Hall,  sir.' 

"  Raithby  Hall !  What  crowds  of  associated  thoughts  came 
up  at  that  sound  !  Then,  I  was  on  the  road  over  which  John 
Wesley  had  so  often  passed  on  his  way  to  and  from  the  hos- 
pitable home  of  Methodist  preachers,  Raithby  Hall,  the  seat 
of  Robert  Carr  Brackenbury,  Esq.    Mr.  Wesley's  first  notice 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  2j3 

of  the  place  occurred  to  my  mind,  and  seemed  to  come  with 
its  first  freshness,  as  my  eye  rested  on  the  scene.  '  We 
went  to  Raithby,'  are  the  words,  '  It  is  a  small  village  on 
the  top  of  a  hill.  The  shell  of  Mr.  Brackenbury's  house  was 
just  finished,  near  which  he  has  built  a  chapel.  It  was  quickly 
rilled  with  deeply  serious  hearers.  I  was  much  comforted 
among  them,  and  could  not  but  observe,  while  the  landlord 
and  his  tenants  were  standing  together,  how 

1  Love,  like  death,  makes  all  distinctions  void.' 

"  There,  then,  said  I  to  myself,  is  the  very  house,  the  mere 
shell  of  which  Wesley  saw  on  July  5th,  1779.  In  that  house 
how  often  did  the  warm-hearted,  pious  '  landlord '  show 
'  much  kindness  '  to  the  Methodist  itinerants  !  There,  too, 
he  learnt  to  sing  hymns  from  his  own  soul.  And  there  it 
was,  probably,  that  his  feeling  towards  those  whose  ministry 
had  so  blessed  him  prompted  his  verses  on  the  second 
chapter  of  Joshua. 

14  Lord,  I  Thy  messengers  receive, 
And  gladly  their  report  believe, 
"Who  by  Thy  order  testify 
Of  judgment  and  salvation  nigh. 
Hunted  by  all  the  faithless  race, 
Here  they  shall  find  a  resting-place ; 
And,  till  the  storm  is  turn'd  aside, 
Secure  beneath  my  roof  abide. 

My  love  they  amply  will  repay, 

If  I  their  warning  voice  obey, 

Hang  out  the  covenanted  sign, 

The  sacred  red,  the  blood  divine  ; 

Then,  though  thy  plagues  our  land  o'erflow, 

And  lay  our  lofty  cities  low, 

No  evil  shall  I  feel  or  dread ; 

Protected  by  the  scarlet  thread. 

"1  was  glad  that  I  knew  something  about  Raithby  Hall, 
and  that  I  could  remember  a  little  about  Brackenbury,  and  a 
few  lines  out  of  his  hymn-book.  I  came  back  from  Qld 
Bolingbroke  that  way  to  have  another  peep  at  the  place  where 
such  holy  men  had  walked  and  talked,  and  prayed  and  sung  ; 


2^4  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

and  where  a  visitor  had  found  on  a  seat  in  the  grove  one  of 

the  pious  esquire's  tuneful  prayers  written    with   a    pencil, 

thus— 

"  Beneath  this  solitary  shade, 
Impervious  to  the  solar  ray, 
Dear  Guardian  Power  my  musings  aid, 
Oft  as  my  footsteps  hither  stray. 

Let  this  delightful  gloom  suggest, 

Lessons  of  impcrt  deep  and  high  ; 
While  conscious  awe  steals  o'er  my  breast, 

That  God,  the  All-seeing  God,  is  nigh. 

Soon  must  I  quit  this  lov'd  retreat, 

And  waft  my  flight  to  distant  spheres  ; 

O  might  I  gain  that  fairest  seat, 
Where  unveil'd  excellence  appears  ! 

Meantime,  my  spirit  thither  borne 

On  wings  of  hope  and  warm  desire, 
Earth's  gayest  scenes  shall  nobly  scorn, 
And  ever  to  its  Source  aspire  !  " 

Robert  Carr    Brackenbury   was    one    of    John   Wesley's 

favourite  companions ;    a   friend   deeply    loved    and   deeply 

loving.    He  often  accompanied  the  great  Methodist  itinerant 

on  his  evangelizing  and  pastoral  journeys,  in  several  parts  of 

the  kingdom,  in  the  Norman  Isles,  and  into  Holland.      His 

delicate  constitution,   however,  prevented  him   from  taking 

that  share  of  labour  as  a  preacher  which  his  heart  would  fain 

have  enjoyed.     His  zeal  would  have  carried  him  to  the  ends 

of  the  earth  ;  but  he  was  held  in  continuous  check  by  bodily 

weakness.     Nevertheless,  in  the  failure  of  bodily  strength  to 

preach,  he  appears  to  have  solaced  himself  by  pouring  out  his 

desires  to  publish  God's  grace,  in  hymns  to  the  great  Source 

of  his  own  spiritual  joy.     Thus  he  sings  about  his  Lord's 

command  to  the  man  delivered  from  an  unclean  spirit  (Mark 

v.  19,  20). 

Jesus,  at  Thy  command  I  go, 

And  to  my  friends  the  wonders  show, 

Which  Thou  to  me  hast  shown  ; 
Thou  hast  Thy  pard'ning  love  reveal'd, 
The  fiend  out  of  my  heart  expell'd 

And  claim'd  it  for  Thine  own. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  2,  , 

While  thus  I  testify  of  Thee, 
With  genuine,  meek  humility, 

Thy  witness,  Lord,  inspire  ; 
That  all  my  friends  may  wake,  and  fear, 
And  listen  till  Thyself  they  hear, 

And  catch  the  heavenly  fire. 

Didst  Thou  in  me  Thyself  reveal, 
That  I  Thy  goodness  might  conceal, 

Or  boastingly  proclaim  ? 
No,  but  Thou  wilt  my  wisdom  be, 
And  give  me  true  simplicity, 

To  glorify  Thy  name. 

Wherefore,  in  confidence  of  grace, 
I  tell  to  all  the  ransom'd  race 

What  Thou  for  me  hast  done ; 
That  all  the  ransom'd  race  may  find 
The  present  Saviour  of  mankind,  '■• 

And  praise  my  God  alone. 

The  loving  invalid  of  Raithby  Hall  seems  to  have  clung 
to  his  friend  Wesley  as  his  father  in  the  Gospel,  and  his 
dearest  adviser  and  guide.  His  feelings  towards  his  venerable 
friend,  and  indeed  to  all  who  ministered  truth  to  him,  may 
have  found  expression  in  a  hymn  given  in  his  "Sacred  Poetry ; 
or  Hymns  on  the  Principal  Histories  of  the  Old  and  New 
Testament."  It  is  from  the  hallowed  story  of  Naomi  and 
Ruth,  and  is  applied  to  a  minister  and  his  spiritual 
children  : — 

Turn  again,  my  children,  turn  ; 

Wherefore  would  you  go  with  me  ? 

O  forbear,  forbear  to  mourn, 
Jesus  wills  it  so  to  be ; 

Why,  when  God  would  have  us  part, 

Weep  ye  thus,  and  break  my  heart  ? 

Go  in  peace,  my  children,  go, 

Only  Jesus'  steps  pursue; 
H6  shall  pay  the  debt  I  owe, 

He  shall  kindly  pay  for  you  ; 
He  your  sure  reward  shall  be, 
Bless  you  for  your  love  to  me. 

Surely  you  have  kindly  dealt 

With  the  living  and  the  dead ; 
You  have  oft  my  burden  felt, 

When  my  tears  were  all  my  bread  ; 
Jesus  lull  you  on  His  breast! 
Jesus  give  you  endless  rest ! 


2 j6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

See  !  thy  sister  is  gone  back 

To  her  gods  and  people  dear ; 
Weeping  soul  !  a  wretch  forsake, 

Why  should'st  thou  my  sorrows  bear  ? 
Turn  and  let  thy  troubles  cease, 
Go,  my  child,  and  go  in  peace. 

O  entreat  me  not  to  leave 

Thee,  my  faithful  guide  and  friend  ; 
Let  me  to  my  father  cleave, 

Let  me  hold  thee  to  the  end  ; 
Thy  own  child  in  Christ  I  am, 
Follow  thee,  as  thou  the  Lamb. 

Never  will  I  cease  to  mourn, 

Till  my  Lord  thy  tears  shall  dry ; 
Never  back  from  thee  return, 

Never  from  my  father  fly  ; 
Do  not  ask  me  to  depart, 
Do  not  break  my  bleeding  heart. 

Where  thou  go'st  I  still  will  go, 

Thine  shall  be  my  soul's  abode  ; 
Thine  shall  be  my  weal  or  woe, 

Thine  my  people  and  my  God  ; 
Where  thou  diest,  with  joy  will  I 
Lay  my  weary  head  and  die. 

There  will  I  my  burial  have 

(If  it  be  the  Master's  will), 
Sleeping  in  a  common  grave, 

Till  the  quick'ning  trump  I  feel  ; 
Call'd  with  thee  to  leave  the  tomb, 
Summon'd  to  our  happy  doom. 

God  do  so  to  me,  and  more, 

If  from  thee,  my  guide,  I  part ; 
Till  the  mortal  pang  is  o'er 

Will  I  hold  thee  in  my  heart ; 
And  when  I  from  earth  remove, 
Meet  thee  in  the  realms  above. 

Some  of  the  last  words  from  his  "  faithful  guide  and 
friend  "  must  have  been  precious  to  him.  "  I  congratulate 
you  upon  sitting  loose  to  all  below.  .  .  My  body  seems 
nearly  to  have  done  its  work,  and  to  be  almost  worn  out.  . 
.  .  It  gave  me  pleasure  to  see  your  letter,  dated  Ports- 
mouth, and  to  hear  that  your  health  is  better.  I  hope  you 
will  be  able  to  spend  a  little  time  with  us  here  ;  and  if  you 
choose  to  lodge  in  my  house,  I  have  a  room  at  }rour  service 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  2^J 

and    we    have    a    family    which    I    can    recommend    to   all 
England  as  adorning  the  doctrine  of  God  our  Saviour." 

In  three  months  from  the  date  of  this  note  Brackenbury 
was  in  the  house  to  which  he  had  been  so  affectionately 
invited,  and  saw  the  aged  prophet,  whom  he  so  loved,  take 
his  upward  flight.  He  himself  followed  erewhile,  and  realized 
the  fulfilment  of  his  own  resolve  : — 

God  do  so  to  me,  and  more, 

If  from  thee  my  guide  I  part ; 
Till  the  mortal  pang-  is  o'er 

Will  I  hold  thee  in  my  heart; 
And  when  I  from  earth  remove, 
Meet  thee  in  the  realms  above. 

The  saintly  John  Fletcher  of  Madely  was  ordained  deacon 
and  priest  in  the  year  1757.  John  Wesley  says,  "  He  was 
ordained  at  Whitehall  ;  and  the  same  day,  being  informed 
that  I  had  no  one  to  assist  me  at  West  Street  Chapel,  he 
came  away  as  soon  as  ever  the  ordination  was  over,  and 
assisted  me  iu  the  administration  of  the  Lord's  Supper."  The 
newly-ordained  man  did  not  come  alone  that  day.  There  had 
been  a  dignified  and  even  reverend-looking  lay  gentleman  at 
the  Whitehall  ordination  service,  interested  in  the  reception 
of  Fletcher  into  the  ministry.  He  walked  with  the  young 
clergyman  to  West  Street  Chapel,  and  as  they  walked  and 
talked,  it  would  be  difficult,  perhaps,  to  say  which  person 
bore  the  more  engaging  marks  of  reverent  meekness,  modesty, 
and  child-likeness.  The  layman  was  rather  the  senior.  He 
was  a  Derbyshire  man,  born  at  Brailsford.  There,  in  early 
life,  he  had  read  Boston's  "  Fourfold  State."  His  heart  was 
arrested  by  its  lessons  of  truth,  and  was  led,  at  length,  into 
"newness  of  life."  Under  the  constraint  of  his  "  first  love," 
he  began  publicly  to  call  his  neighbours  to  repentance ;  and 
among  his  first  spiritual  children  were  the  ringleaders  of  those 
whose  persecutions  had  threatened  him  with  great  peril.  On 
coming  to  London,  his  association  with  the  Wesleys  and  their 
companions  began;  and,  like  many  of  those  first  Methodist 
believers,  he  devoted  his  powers  to  Christ,  both  as  a  preacher 
and  a  hymnist.     This  was  John  Bakewell,  at  whose  house  in 

s 


2jS  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Westminster  Thomas  Olivers  wrote  his  sublime  hymn  to 
"  The  God  of  Abraham,"  and  who  rivalled  his  friend 
Olivers  by  producing,  if  not  so  grand  a  hymn,  yet  one  as 
widely  known,  and  as  graciously  hallowed  to  Christian  singers 
by  the  Spirit's  unction — a  hymn  full  of  solemn  pathos — an 
adoring  salutation  to  Christ — 

Hail !  Thou  once  despised  Jesus  ! 

Hail!  Thou  Galilean  King! 
Thou  didst  suffer  to  release  us ; 

Thou  didst  tree  salvation  bring. 
Hail!  Thou  universal  Saviour  ! 

Bearer  of  our  sin  and  shame  ; 
By  Thy  merits  we  find  favour : 

Life  is  given  through  Thy  Name. 

Paschal  Lamb,  by  God  appointed, 

All  our  sins  on  Thee  were  laid  ; 
By  Almighty  love  anointed, 

Thou  hast  full  atonement  made. 
Every  sin  may  be  forgiven, 

Through  the  virtue  of  Thy  blood; 
Opened  is  the  gate  of  Heaven : 

Peace  is  made  'twixt  man  and  God 

Jesus,  hail !  enthron'd  in  glory, 

There  for  ever  to  abide ; 
All  the  heavenly  hosts  adore  Thee, 

Seated  at  Thy  Father's  side. 
There  for  sinners  Thou  art  pleading  ; 

There  Thou  dost  our  place  prepare  ; 
Ever  for  us  interceding, 

Till  in  glory  we  appear. 

Worship,  honour,  power,  and  blessing, 

Thou  art  worthy  to  receive; 
Loudest  praises,  without  ceasing, 

Meet  it  is  for  us  to  give. 
Help,  ye  bright  angelic  spirits, 

Bring  your  sweetest,  noblest  lays  ; 
Help  to  sing  our  Saviour's  merits, 

Help  to  chant  Immanuel's  praise. 

Soon  we  shall  with  those  in  glory 

His  transcendent  grace  relate; 
Gladly  sing  th'  amazing  story 

Of  His  dying  love  so  great. 
In  that  blessed  contemplation, 

We  for  evermore  shall  dwell, 
Crown'd  with  bliss  and  consolation, 

Such  as  none  below  can  tell. 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  259 

Little  did  Boston  think,  when  he  was  writing  his  "  Four- 
fold State,"  that,  under  God,  he  was  giving  life  to  a  Methodist 
lay  preacher  and  leader  who  for  eighty  years  would  gather 
spiritual  fruit  of  his  labour,  and  by  whom  all  the  evangelical 
churches  in  England  and  America  would  be  set  a-singing  to 
the  "  Galilean  King  "  through  all  generations.  Unlike  some 
of  his  contemporary  hymnists,  he  proved  faithful  to  the 
Christian  people  of  his  first  choice  ;  and  there  was  evidently 
something  about  his  home  influence  which  saved  the  descend- 
ing line  of  his  family  from  such  deviations  as  have  sometimes 
dimmed  the  honour  of  Methodists  in  the  third  generation. 
His  precious  hymn,  the  only  one  left  to  us,  as  far  as  we 
know,  was  numbered  the  hundred  and  third  in  the  Methodist 
collection  of  1797  ;  but  the  appointed  committee  of  revision 
omitted  it  from  the  edition  of  1808.  The  reasons  for  that 
omission  are  not  known,  as  committees  seldom  give  reasons. 
Bakewell's  family  circle  wondered,  doubtless,  and  queried 
among  themselves  in  familiar  chat ;  but  the  venerable 
hymnist's  quietude  was  not  broken.  "  Well,  well,"  said  he, 
"perhaps  they  thought  it  not  worth  while  inserting." 
Rather,  perhaps,  his  modesty  outweighed  his  sense  of  slighted 
merit.  The  hymn,  part  of  it  at  least,  as  altered  by  Toplady, 
has  now  again  found  admission  to  a  Methodist  place. 

Methodism  must,  in  many  ways,  have  owed  much  to 
Bakewell.  "When  I  came  to  Greenwich,"  says  Mr 
Jeremiah  Lacy,  writing  in  1802,  "I  had  no  knowledge  of 
any  person  who  feared  God.  I  was  like  a  fish  out  of  water. 
I  opened  my  room,  and  invited  my  neighbours  to  go  with  me 
to  the  throne  of  grace.  It  pleased  the  Lord  to  open  the  eyes 
of  some,  and  break  the  hearts  of  others ;  and  having  the 
comfort,  through  good  Providence,  to  find  Mr.  Bakewell  in  the 
town,  I  recommended  them  to  his  fatherly  care.  He  took 
upon  him  the  kind  office,  and  met  us  once  a  week  in  his  own 
house  till  the  chapel  was  opened ;  and  his  labours  have  not 
been  in  vain  in  the  Lord."  Mr.  Bakewell  was  a  beautiful 
example  of  that  true  catholicity  which  Primitive  Methodism 
was  remarkable  for.     In  whomsoever  he  saw  any  marks  of 


l6o  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Christ's   mind,    he   saw   a    brother ;    and   this   principle  of 

brotherhood  was   practically  shown  forth   in  his  life.     The 

spirit  of  the  man  is  in  his  hymn.    It  is  truly  a  catholic  hymn  ; 

and  therefore  is  an  elect  song  among  all  classes  of  Christians. 

An  old  lover  of  this  hymn  had  been  sitting  listening  to  a 

devoted  Christian  woman,  who,  amidst  great  infirmity,  was 

reclining  on  her  couch,  chanting  in  sweet  undertones — 

Jesus  hail !  enthron'd  in  glory, 
There  for  ever  to  abide. 

Breaking  off  her  song  for  a  moment,  she  turned  and  said, 
"  Whose  hymn  is  that  ?  It  is  a  precious  one  to  me.  It  keeps 
me  the  whole  day  sometimes,  and  through  wakeful  hours  at 
night,  too,  in  communion  with  my  glorified  Saviour.  Who 
wrote  it?  " 

"It  was  written,"  was  the  reply,  "  in  1760,  by  John 
Bakewell,  one  of  Wesley's  early  members  at  the  Foundery." 

"  Bakewell — Bakewell !  Surely  it  may  be  the  same  as 
wrote  a  letter  which  I  have  read  in  one  of  the  old  Methodist 
magazines — dear  old  volumes !  they  were  real  Methodist 
magazines.  I  think  the  letter  is  in  the  volume  for  1816. 
Just  take  it  down  from  the  shelf  yonder,  and  read  it.  It  is 
about  Christian  brotherly  love." 

The  letter  was  read.  The  afflicted  one  fixed  upon  some 
paragraphs  as  the  more  impressive  to  her  mind  j  this  among 
the  rest :  "  I  took  the  liberty  of  giving  you  my  thoughts  on 
brotherly  love,  and  the  unity  which  ought  to  subsist  between 
the  children  of  God.  I  have  been  confirmed  in  my  opinions 
on  these  subjects  by  reading  the  fourth  chapter  of  the  Epistle 
to  the  Ephesians.  .  .  .  This  one  point,  the  unity  of  the 
Spirit,  he  presses  with  seven  arguments.  .  .  .  It  is  as  if 
the  apostle  should  reason  thus  :  If  the  Church,  your  mother, 
be  but  one ;  God,  your  Father,  one;  Christ,  your  Lord,  one 5 
the  Holy  Ghost,  your  Comforter,  one ;  if  there  be  but  one 
hope,  one  faith,  and  one  baptism,  it  is  certainly  your  bounden 
duty  to  live  together  in  love  as  one,  endeavouring  to  keep  the 
unity  of  the  spirit  in  the  bond  of  peace." 

"  Now,  I  like  that,"  said  the  good  woman ;  "  I  like  the 


THREE    LAY    SINGERS.  l6l 

spirit  of  it  as  well  as  the  argument.  Is  the  writer  the  same 
as  he  who  wrote  the  hymn  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  that.  It  is  so  like  the  man  who 
taught  me  to  sing — 

"  Soon  we  shall  with  those  in  glory 

His  transcendent  grace  relate ; 
Gladly  sing  th'  amazing  story 

Of  His  dying  love  so  great ; 
In  that  blessed  contemplation 

We  for  evermore  shall  dwell, 
Crown'd  with  bliss  and  consolation 

Such  as  none  below  can  tell. 

Now  read  the  finishing  prayer  of  his  letter." 

u  May  God  of  His  infinite  goodness  grant  that  we,  and  all 
serious  Christians,  of  every  denomination,  may  labour  for  a 
perfect  union  of  love,  and  to  have  our  hearts  knit  together 
with  the  bond  of  peace ;  that  following  after  those  essential 
truths  in  which  we  all  agree,  we  may  all  have  the  same 
scriptural  experience,  and  hereafter  attain  one  and  the  same 
kingdom  of  glory." 

"  Oh,  how  that  seems  to  agree  with  the  feeling  which  his 

hymn  gives  me!"   said  the  invalid.     "I   long  to  meet  all 

lovers  of  Jesus,  and 

Gladly  sing  th'  amazing  story 
Of  His  dying  love  so  great.'' 

The  mortal  part  of  John  Bakewell  rests  not  far  from  the  tomb 

of  his  friend  John  Wesley  ;  and  there  is  the  inscription  : — 

$smo  to  i\t  gpmflrg 

OF 

JOHN     BAKEWELL, 

LATE   OF    GREENWICH, 

WHO    DEPARTED    THIS    LIFE    MARCH     j8tH,     l8lQ, 

AGED       NINET  Y-E  I  G  H  T. 

HE     ADORNED    THE     DOCTRINE    OF    GOD    OUR    SAVIOUR 

EIGHTY  YEARS, 

AND     PREACHED     HIS    GLORIOUS    GOSPEL 

ABOUT    SEVENTY    YEARS. 

"  The  memory  of  the  just  is  blessed." 


2<5a  THE    POETS     OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN. 

To  thy  friend,  O  woman  !  be 
As  thy  tender  lute  to  thee  ; 
To  thy  tones  so  pure  and  fond, 
How  that  lute's  soft  notes  respond  ! 
Voice  and  lute  as  one  are  felt  : 
How  they  mingle  !  how  they  melt ! 
Thus  doth  heaven-born  friendship  make 
Holy  harmonies  awake. 


V* 


AXY  a  good,  clever  woman  has  failed  to  leave  an 
impression  on  the  world  simply  for  lack  of 
money,  place,  and  title.  A  mystery  this  may 
appear,  but  it  is  a  fact.  Lady  Huntingdon, 
known  among  her  friends  as  "the  elect  lady," 
would  scarcely  have  made  such  a  mark,  and  left  such  a  name, 
were  it  not  that  Providence  sometimes  carries  out  the  purposes 
of  Divine  goodness  by  turning  wealth,  rank,  and  influence  to 
gracious  purpose.  Lady  Huntingdon  was  faithful  to  her  posi- 
tion, and  could  command  for  her  own  name  even  more  than, 
under  other  circumstances,  would  be  awarded  to  a  woman  of 
her  mental  degree.  Her  goodness  gave  influence  to  her  rank, 
and  her  rank  secured  command  for  her  goodness.  She  was 
closely  connected  with  the  early  spread  of  Methodism.  It  is 
said  by  some  that  "  at  one  time  she  held  a  bridle  in  the  mouth 
of  John  Wesley  "  ;  but  this  is  saying  too  much.  The  Wes- 
leys  honoured  her  as  an  eminent  saint  in  high  life ;  but  when, 
in  her  familiarity  with  the  claims  of  lofty  position,  she  went 
beyond  the  province  of  a  lady,  affected  the  spiritual  dictator, 
and  called  upon  all  the  clergy  under  her  influence  to  invade 
John   Wesley's  own  conference  "in  a  body,"  and  "insist 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  263 

upon  a  formal  recantation"  of  their  published  creed,  as 
"  Popery  unmasked,"  or  "another  gospel  set  up  to  exclude 
that  of  Jesus  Christ,"  she  found  something  in  the  Wesleys 
against  which  she  was  powerless.  John  Wesley,  especially, 
had  so  much  truth  and  logic  on  his  side,  so  strong  a  will,  so 
skilful  an  ecclesiastical  policy,  and  a  heart  so  conscious  of  its 
own  integrity,  that  she  and  her  friends  found  themselves 
constrained  to  retreat,  under  apology,  from  their  somewhat 
ridiculous  position.  She  was  no  match  for  the  Arminian 
leader  in  the  arena  of  doctrine  and  church  discipline.  Ncr 
could  she  rival  the  Methodist  leader  of  song  as  a  hymn 
maker.  Like  many  of  her  evangelizing  contemporaries,  she 
issued  a  hymn-book  for  the  use  of  her  followers,  and,  like 
them,  associated  hymns  of  her  own  with  selections  from  the 
spiritual  songs  of  others.  Her  hymn-book  was  sent  out 
under  a  title  which  seems  to  be  somewhat  characteristic  : 
M  A  Select  Collection  of  Hymns,  universally  Sung  in  all  the 
Countess  of  Huntingdon's  Chapels  ;  Collected  by  her  Lady- 
ship. '  What  meanest  thou,  O  sleeper  ?  Arise,  call  upon 
thy  God!'  Bath  :  Printed  and  Sold  by  S.  Hazard."  The 
lirst  hymn  in  the  book,  said  to  be  her  own,  is  perhaps  a 
reflection  of  her  own  character,  in  its  simplicity,  devout 
warmth,  and  entire  Christian  spirituality : — 

Companions  of  Thy  little  flock, 

Dear  Lord,  we  fain  would  be  ; 
Our  helpless  hearts  to  Thee  look  up, 

To  Thee,  our  Shepherd,  flee. 

Oh  !   might  we  lean  upon  that  breast, 

Which  love  and  pity  fill, 
And  now  become  those  lambs  caress'd, 

That  in  Thy  bosom  dwell. 

How  sweet  that  voice,  how  sweet  that  hand, 

Which  leads  to  pastures  fair  ; 
Shows  Canaan's  milk  and  honey  land, 

Provided  by  Thy  care. 

As  one  in  heart  we  all  rejoice 

The  sinner's  Friend  to  praise ; 
The  Shepherd  died — oh  !  'tis  His  voice  ! 

He'll  us  to  glory  raise. 


264  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Whatever  may  be  thought  of  its  measure  of  poetic  vigour, 
the  lady  who  lived  and  breathed  the  spirit  of  this  hymn, 
while  moving  in  the  "  high  places  "  of  the  land,  could  scarcely 
be  a  favourite  with  ordinary  frequenters  at  court. 

"  Pray,  madam,  are  you  acquainted  with  Lady  Hunting- 
don? "  said  good  old  George  III.  to  a  noble  lady  who  had 
spoken  of  her  offensively. 

"I  am  not,"  was  the  response. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  in  her  company  ?  " 

"  Never,"  replied  the  marchioness,  somewhat  astonished. 

"  Never  form  your  opinion  of  any  one,"  said  the  king, 
"  from  the  ill-natured  remarks  and  censures  of  others.  Judge 
for  yourself,  and  you  have  my  leave  to  tell  everybody  how 
highly  I  think  of  Lady  Huntingdon." 

The  royal  estimate  of  the  distinguished  and  pious  countess 
was  given  on  another  occasion,  at  court,  to  Lord  Dartmouth. 
"  I  was  much  taken  with  her  appearance  and  manner,"  said 
George ;  "  there  is  something  so  noble,  so  commanding,  and 
withal  so  engaging  about  her,  that  I  am  quite  captivated  with 
her  ladyship.  She  appears  to  possess  talents  of  a  very 
superior  order,  is  clever,  well  informed,  and  has  all  the  ease 
and  politeness  of  a  woman  of  rank.  With  all  the  enthu- 
siasm ascribed  to  her,  she  is  an  honour  to  her  sex  and  her 
nation." 

The  "enthusiasm  ascribed  to  her  "  was  really  of  that  pure 
and  intense  nature  which  must  distinguish  a  soul  like  hers 
when  born  into  "newness  of  life"  and  unreservedly  con- 
secrated to  the  service  of  Christ.  Her  husband,  Earl 
Huntingdon,  was  an  exemplary  Christian.  Of  a  serious  cast,, 
even  in  childhood,  she  was  at  length  arrested  by  a  remark 
from  Lady  Margaret  Hastings,  who  had  been  converted  by 
the  instrumentality  of  the  Wesleys'  companion,  Benjamin 
Ingham.  The  converted  lady  said  that  ever  since  she  had 
believed  in  the  Lord  Jesus  for  life  and  salvation  she  had  been 
"as  happy  as  an  angel."  This  happy  religion  the  countess 
sought  and  found,  and  her  newly-found  spiritual  life  found 
expression  in  one  of  her  hymns.     The  hymn,  in  its  poetry, 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  26 <J 

shows  occasional  weakness,  lacks  harmony  here  and  there, 
while  there  are  defects  of  rhyme  and  rhythm  ;  but  withal,  it 
was,  doubtless,  sung  by  herself  and  her  spiritual  kindred  as 
the  truthful  utterance  of  their  newly-tuned  hearts — 

The  blessed  Jesus  is  my  Lord,  my  love, 

He  is  my  choice — from  Him  I  would  not  move. 

Away,  then,  all  ye  objects  that  divert, 

And  seek  to  draw  from  my  dear  Lord,  my  heart ! 

That  uncreated  beauty  which  hath  gained 
My  ravish'd  heart,  has  all  your  glory  stain'd. 

His  loveliness  my  soul  hath  prepossest, 
And  left  no  room  for  any  other  guest. 

Above  's  my  home,  my  country  is  above, 
That  blessed  land  of  life,  of  light,  and  love. 

There  my  dear  friends,  fled  home,  with  God  are  blest, 
Thither  are  swiftly  hasting  all  the  rest. 

There  lives  my  Lord,  and  there  I  long  to  live : 
He  gave  these  longings,  and  Himself  will  give. 

In  the  meantime,  Lord,  show  Thyself  to  me, 
Till  Thou  shalt  please  to  take  me  up  to  Thee. 

In  Thee  now  let  me  find  so  much  of  rest 
As  may  with  more  desire  inflame  my  breast. 

So  seize  on  me  that  we  no  more  may  part ; 

Till  Thou  shalt  take  my  soul,  Lord,  keep  my  heart ; 

And  dwell  in  me,  till  I  with  Thee  shall  dwell ; 
This  earth  with  Thee  is  Heaven,  without  Thee,  hell. 

Some  people  may  look  for  more  of  dignity  in  songs  from  a 
countess ;  but  childlike  zeal  was  now  her  supreme  feeling. 
Nor  can  it  be  wondered  at  that  a  lady  who  put  so  many 
unworldly  congregations  a-singing  such  psalms,  and  who  sent 
so  many  preachers  of  spiritual  godliness  through  the  land, 
would  create  uneasiness  in  high  ecclesiastical  quarters.  A 
Lord  Bishop  poured  into  the  ear  of  majesty  some  complaints 
against  the  zealous  preachers  employed  by  Lady  Huntingdon. 
They  disturbed  his  diocese. 

"  Make  bishops  of  them — make  bishops  of  them,"  was  the 
smart  reply. 

"  That  might  be  done,"  said  the  prelate  ;  "but  please,  your 
majesty,  we  cannot  make  a  bishop  of  Lady  Huntingdon  V 


266  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  king,  "see  if  you  cannot  imitate 
the  zeal  of  these  men." 

To  this  good  advice,  the  queen  added — 

"  As  for  her  ladyship,  you  cannot  make  a  bishop  of  her, 
'tis  true  ;  it  would  be  a  lucky  circumstance  if  you  could,  for 
she  puts  you  all  to  shame." 

In  the  case  of  one  so  appreciated  and  honoured  by  majesty, 
and  so  graciously  taking  a  lead  in  the  work  of  evangelical 
religion,  it  is  quite  natural  that  some  should  be  forward  to  claim 
for  her  rather  more  than  her  due.  She  was  useful,  though  not 
of  high  genius  as  a  hymnist;  yet  the  honour  has  been  claimed 
for  her  of  being  the  author  of  Robinson's  fine  hymn — 

Come,  thou  Fount  of  every  blessing. 

This  effort  on  her  behalf,  however,  has  been  made  with  more 

zeal   than    success.       The   evidence   given    is    not    weighty 

enough  to  turn  the  current  of  tradition.    The  hymn,  as  given 

in  her  collection,  has  been  botched,  apparently,  and  there 

have  been  queer  attempts  to  put  patches  on  it ;  but  one  thing 

is    clear   enough,    that    Robinson's    hymn,    and    the    best 

specimens  from   her    ladyship's  pen,  are  not   of  the   same 

family ;  at  all   events,  are  not  creations  of  the  same  mind. 

Lady  Huntingdon's   "  Judgment   Hymn  "   is,  perhaps,   her 

best ;  but  there  is  the  same  occasional  want  of  power,  as  in 

all  the  effusions  ascribed  to  her;  the  same  want  of   masterly 

ease,  and  the  same  pronenessto  limping  movement  5  nothing 

of  the  full-toned,  but   plaintive,   sweetness  of  harmony  and 

pathos  so  evidently  native  to  the  genius  which  breathes  in 

Robinson's    verses.       This    is    her    ladyship's    Judgment 

Hymn  : — 

We  soon  shall  hear  the  midnight  cry, 
And  Gabriel's  trump  shall  shake  the  sky, 

And  cleave  the  starry  plain  ; 
The  angel-herald  shall  proclaim 
Redemption,  through  the  slaughter'd  Lamb, 

And  break  death's  pow'rful  chain. 

Then  shall  the  Judge  descend  in  clouds, 
Circled  around  with  countless  crowds 
Of  the  celestial  choir; 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  267 

Before  whose  rapid,  glorious  ray, 
The  frighted  heavens  shall  flee  away, 
And  hide  themselves  in  fire. 

How,  how  shall  sinners  venture  nigh, 
Before  the  Lamb  in  yonder  sky  ? 

Yet,  oh  !  they  must  draw  near, 
To  hear  the  dreadful  word — depart! 
Which,  like  some  deadly-pointed  dart, 

Their  hearts  will  wound  and  tear. 

While  vengeful,  fiery  tempests  hurl'd, 
Shall  chase  them  downward  to  the  world 

Of  everlasting  pain  ; 
Then  they  their  helpless  grief  shall  mourn, 
Who  to  the  Lamb  would  never  turn — 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain. 

Dear  Lord,  I  sink  at  Thy  pierc'd  feet ; 
Oh  !  let  me,  by  experience  sweet, 

Taste  Thy  forgiving  love. 
And  when  Thou  dost  to  judgment  come, 
Take  me  with  Thee  to  Thy  blest  home, 

In  Salem's  land  above  ! 

Oh !  when  my  righteous  Judge  shall  come, 
To  fetch  His  ransom'd  people  home, 

Shall  I  among  them  stand  ? 
Shall  such  a  worthless  worm  as  1^ 
So  sinful,  and  unfit  to  die, 

Be  found  at  Thy  right  hand  ? 

I  love  to  meet  among  them  now, 
Before  Jehovah's  feet  to  bow, 

Though  viler  than  them  all ; 
But  who  can  bear  the  piercing  thought — 
What  if  my  name,  should  be  left  out — 

When  He  for  them  shall  call  ? 

Dear  Lord,  prevent  it  by  Thy  grace ; 
Oh !  let  me  see  Thy  smiling  face 

In  this  my  gracious  day  ; 
Thy  pard'ning  voice,  oh  !  let  me  hear, 
To  still  my  unbelieving  fear, 

Nor  let  me  fall  away. 

Among  Thy  saints  let  me  be  found, 
Whene'er  th'  archangel's  trump  shall  sound, 

To  see  Thy  smiling  face ; 
Then,  loudest  of  the  crowd,  I'll  sing, 
Till  Heaven's  resounding  mansions  ring, 

The  riches  of  Thy  grace. 


268  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

This  early  Methodist  lady  outlived  her  friend  Whitfield, 
and  lingered  on  this  side  Jordan  a  few  months  after  John 
Wesley  passed.  She  lived  long  enough  to  see  John  Wesley's 
character  in  clearer  light.  A  little  before  her  own  departure 
she  said  :  "  This  night  I  shall  go  to  my  Father.  .  .  .  Can  He 
forget  to  be  gracious  r  Is  there  an  end  of  His  loving  kind- 
ness ?  .  .  .  My  work  is  done;  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to 
go  to  my  Father  !  "  She  went  on  the  17th  of  June,  1791, 
having  spent  just  eighty-four  years  in  her  pilgrimage. 

At  the  time  of  Lady  Huntingdon's  departure  there  was  a 
young  Methodist  girl  of  sixteen  living  in  Lombard  Street, 
London,  who,  though  born  in  what  some  would  think  an 
unfavourable  spot  for  the  spring  and  culture  of  poetic  genius, 
was  a  poet  of  a  much  higher  and  richer  class  than  the  hymnist 
of  Donington  Park.  This  was  Agnes  Collinson — afterwards 
known  as  Mrs.  Agnes  Buhner — who,  on  her  departure  into 
light,  August  29th,  1  S3 6,  was  spoken  of  by  another  poet  of 
Methodism,  W.  M.  Bunting,  as  "one  of  the  most  intellectual 
and  holy  women,  probably,  whose  presence  ever  adorned  the 
world."  Her  school-days  were  scarcely  over  when  she  made 
her  first  venture,  as  a  poet,  by  sending  some  lines  to  John 
Wesley  on  the  death  of  his  brother  Charles.  The  venerable 
hymnist  expressed  his  pleasure,  and  became  her  first  faithful 
but  gentle  critic.  Almost  immediately  after  this,  she  received 
from  him,  as  her  pastor,  her  first  ticket  of  membership  in 
the  Methodist  Society  j  and  her  refined  genius  was  now  fully 
consecrated  to  Him  to  whom  she  had  given  her  heart.  Like 
the  poet  to  whose  memory  she  devoted  some  of  her  first 
lines,  she  warbled  several  of  her  sweetest  songs  amidst  the 
sharpest  trials  of  domestic  life.  She,  too,  proved  that  the 
daily  experiences  in  the  family  home  most  blessedly  simplify 
and  brighten  the  poet's  consecrated  genius.  Through  half 
the  year  1S22  she  might  have  said,  "  I  am  made  to  possess 
months  of  calamity,  and  wearisome  nights  are  appointed  to 
me."  Her  husband,  Mr.  Joseph  Bulmer,  was  passing  under 
affliction  to  his  heavenly  rest.  He  had  long  been  a  faithful, 
humble,  warm-hearted,  and  unselfish  member  and  officer  of 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  l6() 

the  Methodist  Society;  but  bereavement  was  now  coming  on 

his  earthly  home.     The  clouds  were  gathering,  and  in  the 

present  dimness,  and  with  a  darkening  prospect,  the  devoted 

wife,  just  before  the  hour  of  widowhood  came,  fled  with  her 

burden  to  Him  who  "  giveth  songs  in  the  night  "  ;  and  then 

her  heart  gave  forth  its  hymn  of  sweetly  harmonized  sadness, 

spiritual  longing,  reliance,  and  reverent  hope  : — 

High  on  Thy  heavenly  seat, 
Jesus,  to  Thee  I  pray ! 

0  see  the  sinner  at  Thy  feet, 
Nor  turn  Thine  ear  away. 

Embolden'd  by  Thy  word, 

By  want  and  weakness  prest, 
To  Thy  Divine  compassions,  Lord, 

I  pour  my  full  request. 

1  ask  the  joy  unknown 

That  from  Thy  presence  springs 
When,  prostrate  at  Thy  awful  throne, 

Thy  mercy's  shadowing  wings 
Temper  the  light  which  breaks 

Resplendent  from  Thine  eye ; 
When  soft  the  whisp'ring  Spirit  speaks, 

II  The  Lord  is  passing  by  !  " 

I  ask  that  sight  of  faith 

To  humblest  mourners  given, 
That  view  of  Thy  mysterious  death, 

Thy  pleading  pow'r  in  heaven, 
Which  calms  the  troubled  breast 

When  guilty  fears  invade, 
And  bids  the  trembling  spirit  rest 

In  Thy  perpetual  aid. 
I  ask  that  hallowing  fear, 

That  heaven  of  humble  love, 
Which  joins  a  saint  in  worship  here 

To  saints  redeem'd  above. 
E'en  now  the  veil  withdrawn, 

In  fellowship  with  Thee, 
Oh,  might  the  day  of  glory  dawn 

The  twilight  shadows  flee  ! 
On  me,  Thy  suppliant  child, 

Be  all  Thy  form  imprest, 
Thy  nature  pure,  Thy  spirit  mild ; 

That,  meet  for  heavenly  rest, 
I  may  that  call  attend 

Which  shall  my  soul  remove, 
And  from  Thy  footstool  here  ascend 

To  share  Thy  throne  above. 


-7°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

This  hymn  first  appeared  in  the  "  Methodist  Magazine,"  to 
the  poetic  department  of  which  Mrs.  Bulmer  contributed  for 
several  years.  Her  widowhood  was  made  still  more  discon- 
solate in  1825,  when  her  venerable  mother,  after  two  years  of 
close  companionship  with  her  widowed  daughter,  left  this 
world  for  her  scene  of  repose  nearer  to  her  Divine  Lord. 
The  lonely  poet  now  bent  her  mind  to  the  composition  of 
her  great  work,  "  Messiah's  Kingdom."  u  The  longest  poem 
by  a  lady  in  any  language, "  says  James  Montgomery,  u  that 
I  am  acquainted  with.  It  seems  to  embrace  the  sum  of  the 
lessons  which  an  immortal  spirit  has  learned  of  itself,  of  its 
fellow-creatures,  and  of  God,  on  its  progress  to  glory  and 
felicity,  through  a  world  fallen  and  miserable.  The  versifi- 
cation is  distinguished  by  remarkable  freedom  and  fluency. 
It  is  a  volume  from  which  hundreds  of  happy  quotations 
might  be  made." 

Montgomery  is  just.  How  often  the  reader  of  her  tuneful 
pages  is  arrested  by  some  majestic,  beautiful,  or  touching 
utterance — as  when  he  hears  the  poet's  voice  to  fallen  man, 
overtaken  by  the  flood  : — 

Then,  hapless  man,  the  soil  that  gave  thee  birth 

Groan'd  with  thy  weight  of  crime  !     Dissolving  earth 

Felt  the  incumbent  curse ;  and  thou,  in  vain, 

With  trembling  steps,  along  the  liquid  plain, 

Urgedst  thy  tardy,  unavailing  flight ! 

Lo!  the  tall  cedars  on  the  mountain's  height 

Bow  to  the  raging  storm  !     Thy  last  resource 

Beneath  the  whirlwind's  dire  convulsive  force 

Falls,  crashing,  thundering  down  ;  the  forest  shakes 

The  rifted  adamant  asunder  breaks. 

Loud  bellowing  waters  fill  the  chasm  beneath  ; 

Above  is  vengeance !  all  around  is  death  ! 

Nature's  wild  dissonance  returns  thy  groan, 

Till  all  is  silence !     Ruin  reigns  alone  ! 

Above  the  measureless,  the  formless  waste, 

She  sits,  exulting  o'er  a  world  defaced  ! 

Around  her  throne  the  spoils  of  vengeance  sweep. 

And  Judgment  heaves  the  billows  of  the  deep  '. 

And  again,  when  she  gives  her  fine  paraphrase  on  the 
Saviour's  words,  "The  wind  bloweth  where  it  listeth,  and 
thou  nearest  the  sound  thereof,  but  canst  not  tell  whence  it 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  2J1 

cometh,  and  whither  it  goeth  ;  so  is  every  one  that  is  born  of 

the  Spirit  ": — 

As  through  mid-air  the  sweeping  current  blows, 
Or,  gently  gliding,  sinks  to  soft  repose, 
All  uncontroll'd  by  man,  who  knows  not  where 
Fierce  hyperborean  storms  their  shafts  prepare, 
Or  whence,  descending  mild,  on  balmy  wing, 
Soft  zephyr  comes  to  fan  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 
So  works,  by  human  counsels  undefined, 
The  teaching  Spirit  on  the  pliant  mind ; 
Nor  to  the  world  His  secret  course  declares, 
But  unperceived  His  instrument  prepares  ; 
Then  in  the  finish'd  work  unfolds  His  skill, 
And  bends  His  agent  to  His  perfect  will. 

And  again,  her  awe-inspiring  sketch  of  the  weird  scene  of 
unhappy  Saul's  appeal  to  witchcraft : — 

It  was  a  fearful  night  when  fell  Despair 

Drew  from  Gilboa,  and  his  captains  there, 

The  guilty,  gloomy  king  to  tempt  the  path 

From  mortal  step  debari'd;  Heaven  frown'd  in  wrath, 

Nor  moon  nor  twinkling  star  its  radiance  lent, 

To  guide  the  silent  travellers  as  they  went 

Down  the  deep  glen  by  Endor's  mountain  wood, 

To  seek  the  demon's  haunt,  'midst  rocks  that  stood 

Frowning  precipitous  beneath  the  ground, 

Where  cavern'd  vaults  repeat  unearthly  sound  ; 

Where  wizard  spells,  and  incantations  dread, 

And  howling  murmurs  o'er  the  buried  dead 

Break  not  on  mortal  ears  ;  nor  mortal  sight 

Scans  the  dire  deeds  of  those  who  hate  the  light. 

What  lover  of  the  Bible  does  not  hold  the  blessed  Book 
nearer  to  his  heart  while  he  catches  the  poet's  spirit,  and 
cries  : — 

Hail,  Holy  Record  of  supernal  love  ! 
Thy  living  lines  even  seraphs  search  above, 
And  saints  below  with  holy  wonder  trace, 
Intent  to  learn  thy  mysteries  of  grace. 
Stupendous  register  of  truth  sublime, 
'Tis  thine  to  chase  the  darkling  mists  of  time  ; 
To  cheer  the  mariner  with  friendly  light, 
Through  shelving  rocks  to  guide  his  course  aright : 
To  show  beyond  the  deep,  that  peaceful  shore, 
Where  waves  subside,  and  tempests  rage  no  more ; 
But  heaven's  unsetting  splendours  radiant  glow, 
Nor  seasons  change,  nor  night  of  sorrow  know. 


272  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Eternal  Oracle  of  Truth,  thy  voice 

Bids  misery  hope,  and  holy  Faith  rejoice  ; 

The  wayward  step  of  thoughtless  youth  restrains  ; 

Soothes  hoary  age,  amidst  its  cares  and  pains  ; 

Pours  heavenly  music  on  the  raptur'd  ear, 

"When  Death's  dread  angel  draws  in  stillness  near ; 

Proclaims  beside  the  grave,  that  destin'd  hour, 

When  strangely  quicken'd  by  all-conquering  power, 

Each  captive,  from  its  dark  recesses  brought, 

Shall  share  the  victory  by  Messiah  wrought, 

Emerge  from  Hades'  deep  sepulchral  gloom, 

And  wave  his  palm  of  triumph  o'er  the  tomb. 

And  who  does  not  rejoice  with  trembling  over  the  doom 
of  a  blood-stained  empire,  as  he  reads  : — 

Long,  long  his  flight  th'  avenging  angel  stay'd, 

Forbearing  Love  the  stern  behest  delay'd  ; 

Long  rose  the  prayer  of  mediatorial  grace, 

As  fuming  incense  in  the  holy  place; 

It  came  at  length — the  word  of  wrathful  ire  ; 

That  seraph  flame  unfurl'd  his  wings  of  fire  ; 

Forth  from  the  sacred  shrine  as  lightning  past, 

And  down  to  earth  his  burning  censer  cast. 

Soon  darkling  clouds  eclips'd  the  cheerful  sky, 

Hoarse  tempests  howi'd  with  loud  and  dissonant  cry. 

While  throes  convulsive  heaved  the  solid  ground, 

And,  sullen  echoing  through  the  gloom  profound, 

Unearthly  voices  fill'd  the  startled  ear 

With  wail  portentous  of  destruction  near. 

Then  fell  thy  throne,  proud  mistress  of  the  world  ! 

Then  from  its  mountain  height  impetuous  hurl'd, 

A  wreck  it  floated  on  the  ruthless  tide 

Of  fierce  barbarian  anarchy,  whose  wide 

And  rushing  waters,  with  tempestuous  sweep, 

Bore  diadem  and  sceptre  to  the  deep, 

Roll'd  dark  and  dreadful  o'er  thy  proud  domain, 

And  left  thee  withering  'midst  thy  heaps  of  slain. 

This  fine  poem  is  remarkable  for  the  variations  of  its 
grandeur  and  beauty.  The  poet  has  skilfully  introduced 
lyrical  pieces  here  and  there,  not  breaking  the  unity  of  the 
poem,  but  rather  making  its  harmony  more  rich.  Some  of 
these  lyrics  are  of  great  beauty,  and  some  have  a  grandeur 
about  them.  They  are  ingeniously  set,  and  sparkle  like 
gems  in  the  finely  wrought  texture  of  the  pages.  Words- 
worth has  an  allusion  to  the  rainbow,  its  effect  on  him  in 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOME3*.  2/3 

youth,  the  effect  it  still  has,  and  the  effect  he  hopes  it  will 
have  in  his  old  age  : — 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 
A  rainbow  in  the  sky  ; 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 

So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 

This  is  simple  ;  but  how  cold  and  void  of  those  richer  and 
deeper  lessons  which  the  Christian  thinker  finds  in  the  rain- 
bow ;  and  how  inane  its  music  seems  when  followed  by 
Agnes  Bulmer's  lofty,  yet  quietly  instructive,  touching,  and 
inspiriting  hymn  on  the  token  of  the  covenant  between  God 
and  the  world  after  the  flood  : — 

Gloomy  cloud,  that,  low'ring  low, 

Shadowest  nature's  lovely  light, 
Wide  thy  deepening  darkness  throw, 

Catch  the  sunbeam  bursting  bright ; 
Gently  on  thy  humid  breast, 
Bid  its  soften'd  splendours  rest. 

Wild  the  wind,  and  fierce  the  flood, 
Foaming,  roaring,  raved  and  rush'd  ; 

Thunders  roll'd — the  voice  of  God  : 
Now  the  angry  storm  is  hush'd, 

Now  the  eddying  whirlwind  sleeps, 
Ocean  seeks  its  barrier  deeps. 

Beauteous  bow  !  thy  arch  sublime, 

Resting  on  the  distant  hills, 
Leads  me  back  to  earliest  time  ; 

Hope  my  pensive  spirit  fills, 
In  thy  softest  hues  I  trace 
Gentler,  lovelier  beams  of  grace. 

Lo!    the  tempest's  rage  is  o'er, 

Flashing  fires  no  longer  gleam; 
Solemn  thunders  cease  to  roar, 

Silvery  clouds  resplendent  stream  ; 
Bright  the  bursting  sun  appears, 
Ararat  its  summit  rears. 

From  his  floating  home  released, 

Noah  on  the  mountain  stands, 
Spreads  the  sacrificial  feast, 

Lifts  to  Heaven  his  praying  hands, 
Listens  to  the  Voice  Divine, 
Looks  on  thee,  peace-speaking  sign. 


2^4  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Hush  !  the  word  of  promise  breaks, 

Not  in  thunders  hoarse  and  loud  ; 
Lo  !  the  covenant-Saviour  speaks 

Softly  from  the  symboll'd  cloud  : 
Rise  !  the  storm  of  wrath  is  pass'd  ; 
Judgment  shall  not  always  last. 

So  upon  the  anxious  heart, 

Chafed  with  sorrow's  wild  alarm, 
"When  the  troubled  clouds  dispart, 

When  the  rough  wind  sinks  to  calm, 
Breaks  the  light  from  distant  spheres, 
Falling  on  a  mist  of  tears. 

Sun  of  Righteousness  !  from  thee 

Soft  those  lucid  rays  descend, 
Mildest  mercy  beams  on  me ; 

Whispers  every  storm  shall  end, 
Now  the  covenant-sign  is  given, 
Bright  appears  the  bow  in  heaven. 

Resting  on  th'  eternal  hills, 

Arrhing  high  the  emerald  throne, 
Heaven  with  hallow'd  light  it  fills, 

Sends  its  soft  effulgence  down. 
Holy  light !    I  hail  thee  now, 
Circling,  mild,  Emmanuel's  brow. 

Yes,  that  meek,  resplendent  sign 

Presages  a  cloudless  sky ; 
Heaven's  eternal  light  shall  shine, 

Truth  and  mercy  meet  on  high, 
Righteousness  and  Peace  unite, 
Mingling  beams  divinely  bright. 

Hush,  my  sorrow  !  from  a  storm, 

Fierce,  and  terrible,  and  wild, 
Sprang  that  bow  whose  splendrous  form, 

Radiant,  round  the  Reconciled  ; 
Glory's  fountain  set  in  shade, 
Earthly  lights  retired  dismay'd. 

From  the  Cross,  where  darkness  shrouds 

Him  who  suffered  there  for  me, 
In  the  fearful  tempest  clouds, 

Resting  dread  on  Calvary, 
Mercy's  beaming  sign  appears, 
See,  believe,  and  dry  thy  tears  ! 

There  used  to  be  a  part  of  Manchester,  in  going  through 
the  smutty  brick-ways  and  murky  air  of  which  one  might 
have  found  it  a  pleasant  relief  to  exercise  the  mind  in  banish- 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  2/5 

ing  all  that  was  disagreeable  from  present  view,  and  to  set 
the  imagination  to  work  in  restoring  the  natural  scenery  as  it 
used  to  be.  To  look  down  from  Pin  Mill  Brow  on  the 
winding  valley  beneath  old  Ancoat's  Hall,  and  to  purify  the 
river  until  it  was  again  a  trout  stream ;  to  reclothe  the  banks 
with  hazel  and  alder,  and  the  upland  slopes  with  oaken  copse  ; 
and  to  surround  the  old  hall  with  its  primitive  wood  and 
glades  once  more,  would  be  a  mental  joy  that  might  serve  to 
beguile  one's  way  up  the  hilly  street  into  the  midst  of  the 
grim,  gigantic,  brick-built,  cotton  mills.  On  the  top  of  the 
swell,  however,  other  joys  would  come  to  those  who  were 
alive  to  sacred  associations.  There  was  the  Ancoats'  Metho- 
dist Chapel,  which,  with  all  its  latter-day  grime,  had  been 
clean  once ;  and  dingy  as  it  necessarily  became  inside  and 
out,  it  was  the  birth-place  of  so  many  souls,  and  the  gather- 
ing-place of  so  many  holy  people,  that  the  sight  of  it  always 
brought  up  devout  thoughts  and  balmy  memories.  The 
putting  down  of  the  first  stone  of  that  building  is  now 
associated  with  the  life  and  music  of  a  hymn  that  was  first 
sung  when  that  foundation  was  laid.  Mr.  James  Wood, 
of  Grange  House,  requested  Mrs.  Bulmer  to  write  a  hymn 
for  the  occasion  j  but  as  she  was  just  entering  on  a  journey 
to  Preston,  no  other  opportunity  presented  itself  than  that 
which  was  offered  in  the  coach.  There  she  composed  the 
beautiful  verses.  They  were  sent  to  Manchester  the  next 
day  ■  and  those  who  gathered  round  the  ground-work  of  the 
New  Chapel,  sang, — 

Thou  who  hast  in  Sion  laid 

The  true  Foundation  stone, 
And  with  those  a  covenant  made, 

Who  build  on  that  alone: 
Hear  us,  Architect  divine  ! 

Great  builder  of  Thy  Church  below; 
Now  upon  Thy  servants  shine, 

Who  seek  Thy  praise  to  show. 

Earth  is  Thine  ;  her  thousand  hills 

Thy  mighty  hand  sustains  ; 
Heaven  Thy  awful  presence  fills, 

O'er  all  Thy  glory  reigns  : 


276  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Yet  the  place  of  old  prepared 

By  royal  David's  favour'd  son, 
Thy  peculiar  blessing  shared, 

And  stood  Thy  chosen  throne. 

We,  like  Jesse's  son,  would  raise 

A  temple  to  the  Lord  ; 
Sound  throughout  its  courts  His  praise, 

His  saving  name  record; 
Dedicate  a  house  to  Him 

Who  once,  in  mortal  weakness  shrined, 
Sorrow'd,  suffer'd,  to  redeem, 

To  rescue  all  mankind. 

Father,  Son,  and  Spirit  send 

The  consecrating  flame  ; 
Now  in  majesty  descend, 

Inscribe  the  living  Name — 
That  great  Name,  by  which  we  live, 

Now  write  on  this  accepted  stone  ; 
Us  into  Thy  hands  receive, 

Our  temple  make  Thy  throne. 

Since  then,  from  how  many  a  devout  assembly  gathered 
in  town  and  city  streets,  on  village  greens,  on  country  road- 
sides, on  moorland  plains,  on  wooded  heights,  and  by  valley- 
streams,  has  the  music  of  that  hymn  risen  to  Heaven  like 
morning  incense  or  evening  sacrifice  ! 

Mrs.  Bulmer,  in  her  "Messiah's  Kingdom,"  rejoicing  over 
Christian  England  as  the 

Gem  of  the  ocean,  whose  pellucid  light 
Shines  like  the  sun's  in  every  region  bright, 

sings  to  her  native  country — 

Heaven,  to  thy  hands  the  lamp  of  truth  consign'd  : 
'Tis  Thine,  with  grateful  heart,  to  all  mankind. 
Its  quick'ning,  gliding,  cheering  beams  to  show, 
O'er  earth's  dark  bounds  to  bid  its  glories  flow. 

Methodism  has  taken  a  large  share  in  fulfilling  this  mis- 
sionary calling  of  England.  Nor  have  holy  women  been 
lacking  in  readiness  to  brave  "  perils  in  the  deep,"  and 
"perils  in  the  wilderness"  of  heathendom,  in  order  to  dif- 
fuse the  truth  which  has  hallowed  their  own  character  and 
gifts.  Some  of  these  have  names  among  the  poets  of 
Methodism ;   and  their  genius  has  been  called  into  happy 


A     CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  2J7 

•exercise  in  unfolding  the  scenes  of  missionary  labour,  and  in 
recording  the  results  of  Christian  sacrifice. 

One  of  these  has  said  :  "  Life  is  full  of  poetry.  The 
stream  of  every  day  has  its  sparkle  and  its  shade.  The 
natural  and  the  moral  world  have  each  their  myriad  touches 
of  beauty,  the  more  deeply  affecting  because  it  but  gleams 
from  the  wreck  that  sin  has  occasioned.''  Some  of  such 
gleams  come  to  us  reflected  from  the  poetic  pages  of  "  Ade- 
line," the  scenes  of  whose  missionary  wanderings  and  life 
still  live  in  the  light  of  her  genius.  Few  who  have  crossed 
the  seas,  on  their  missionary  way  to  heathendom,  have  so 
pleasantly  helped  us  to  realize  ocean  scenery  as  this  gifted 
and  pious  wife  has  done.     Listen  to  her  on  the  broad  deep — 

Sparkling  and  silent,  save  where  finny  life 

Sported  in  gladness,  was  the  ocean  floor  ; 
Gemm'd  with  the  thronging-  stars  that,  far  from  strife, 

Gazed  lovingly,  as  they  would  fain  adore 
Their  own  bright  images  ;  while  evermore 

Phosphoric  gleamings,  as  a  thousand  fires, 
Flicker'd  and  flash'd  the  deepening  azure  o'er, 

Like  shiver'd  lightnings,  or  the  shattered  lyres 
Of  seraphs  fallen,  flung  from  the  celestial  choirs. 

J  was  alone — in  thought,  in  soul,  alone — 

On  that  wild  world  of  waters  ;  and  I  gazed 
On  its  calm  glories  silently,  as  one 

By  lonely  grandeur  'wilder'd  and  amazed ; 
Yet  ever  and  anon,  as  splendour  blazed 

From  some  fair  planet,  or  bright  silver  star, 
My  spirit  woke  from  reverie,  and  praised 

The  fount  of  beauty,  who,  with  nought  to  mar, 
Strew'd  thousand  gems  of  light  in  the  blue  heaven  afar. 

The  azure  paled,  for  morn's  clear,  rosy  light, 

Glow'd  in  the  far  east;  one  light  arch  of  gold 
Glovv'd  in  the  horizon  faintly,  as  the  night, 

Departing,  bade  the  gates  of  day  unfold  ; 
Star  after  star  from  the  blue  concave  roll'd, 

And  the  dark  ocean — not  a  wandering  cloud 
Dimm'd  the  pure  zenith,  as  in  calm  untold 

It  hail'd  Aurora,  radiant  as  she  bowed 
When  first  adoringly  she  own'd  her  Maker,  God. 

A  thousand  hues  of  glory,  rich  and  rare, 

Burst  on  my  vision ;  rainbow  hues  of  light ; 

Tints  woven  of  the  sunshine,  gaily  fair ; 

Gold,  emerald,  rose-hued,  amber  richly  bright, 


2j8  THE    I'OETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  regal  purple,  fading  to  the  light 

Of  softest  sapphire  : — Oh,  the  gorgeous  blaze 
That  flash'd  around  me,  as  in  kingly  might 

The  day's  proud  monarch  flung  his  royal  rays 
O'er  the  wide  main  that  shone  and  sparkled  'neath  his  gazt.  ! 
Joy  was  it  on  the  bounding  waves  to  ride, 

Foaming  and  flashing  with  the  rising  breeze  ; 
To  watch  the  spray-wreaths  floating  on  the  tide, 

Like  sunbeams  glancing  on  the  billowy  seas  ! 
To  list  the  roar,  the  eternal  melodies, 

The  noise  of  waters,  ocean's  ceaseless  well, 
From  the  deep  sea-halls,  echoing  as  the  trees 

Of  myriad  forests,  roused  by  hidden  spell, 
To  pour  their  murmur  forth  in  wild,  continuous  swell. 

Nor  does  "Adeline"  less  happily  make  us  feel  as  if  we  were 
with  her  at  noontide  and  evening  amidst  the  tropical  plain  and 
palmy  oasis  : — 

The  desert  spread  around  me,  silent,  vast, 

And  shadowless  as  ocean,  'neath  the  glare 
Of  noontide  splendour  ;  one  wild,  arid  waste 

Of  fearful  soiitude,  that  the  hot  air 
Swept  over  scorchingly  ;  stern,  parch'd,  and  bare, 

As  scathed  for  ever  with  a  with'ring  blight, 
Away,  away,  in  weary  gloom  afar, 

Pathless  it  stretch'd,  and  the  broad,  sultry  light 
Pour'd  down  in  dazzling  floods  on  the  dim,  aching  sight. 
I  wander'd  on  o'er  that  wide,  trackless  plain, 

No  guide  save  tropic  sunlight,  till  the  day 
In  glory  faded,  and  the  starry  train 

From  the  deep  azure  flung  a  silvery  ray 
Of  quivering  lustre  on  my  weary  way  ; 

Sweet  was  the  change  !  the  dewy  radiance  fell 
Cool,  soft  as  spring-time,  when  its  zephyrs  play 

On  founts  and  blossoms,  and  bright  things  that  dwell 
'Mid  wak'ning  leaves  that  flush  wood,  grove,  and  hidden  dell. 
Dimly  afar,  in  morn's  enkindling  blaze, 

A  verdant  isle  I  mark'damid  the  waste ; 
And  thither  sped  in  gladness  and  amaze, 

As  its  green  palms  in  golden  light  I  traced  ; 
Clustering  and  tall,  that  lonely  spot  they  graced, 

"While  'neath  their  shadows  fragrant  cup  and  bell 
Gleam'd  out  'mid  verdure  beauteous,  and  cast 

Sweet  odours  round  them,  as  a  perfumed  spell, 
From  desert  gloom  to  lure  to  their  bright  citadel. 

I  linger'd  there !  the  leafy  dimness  shed 

O'er  its  still  beauty  fell  upon  my  soul 
As  evening  twilight,  when  the  sunset  red 

Hath  left  cool  shadows  in  the  clouds  that  roll 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  279 

O'er  heaven's  blue  concave.     Wild'ringly  there  stole 

Athwart  my  spirit  the  rich,  deep  repose 
Of  its  hush'd  quiet,  that,  without  control, 

O'erwhelmed  my  being-,  while  its  glad  thought  rose 
To  Him  who  'mid  the  waste  bright  gems  of  beauty  throws. 

Happy  is  the  woman  who  may  be  classed  with  those  of 
whom  St.  Paul  said  they  "  labour  with  me  in  the  gospel  ;  " 
and  who  in  their  missionary  labour  have  been,  like  him,  "  in 
journeyings  often,  in  perils  of  waters,  in  perils  by  the  heathen, 
in  perils  in  the  wilderness,  in  perils  in  the  sea ;  "  and  yet, 
like  him,  amidst  all  and  after  all,  "in  everything  give 
thanks."  Such  blessedness  seems  to  have  been  u  Adeline's  " 
attainment  ;  and  one  of  the  best  efforts  of  her  devout  poetical 
genius  is  found  in  the  hymn  which,  with  so  much  simple 
beauty  of  thought,  tuneful  cheerfulness  of  feeling,  and 
grateful  harmony  of  language,  engages  us  in  blessing  God  for 
His  "Blessings." 

For  thousand,  thousand  mercies  new, 

At  dawn  and  vesper  hour ; 
The  early  and  the  later  dew, 

The  sunshine  and  the  shower ; 
P'or  founts  of  ever-springing  bliss, 

For  hope's  unclouded  ray  ; 
For  life's  thrice  blessed  sympathies, 

We  bless  Thee  day  by  day. 

For  fond  affection's  richest  love, 

For  household  tones  of  mirth, 
For  melodies  that  hourly  pour 

From  hearts  of  kindred  birth  ; 
For  many  a  fireside  thrill  of  love, 

For  many  a  joyous  lay  ; 
For  peace  that  emblems  peace  above, 

We  bless  Thee  day  by  day. 

For  untold  sympathy  that  dwells 

Enshrined  in  love's  fond  breast ; 
For  springs  that  sorrow  most  reveals, 

Thrice  hallow'd  and  thrice  blest ! 
For  waves  of  blessedness  that  steep 

Our  lot  in  radiant  day  ; 
For  happiness  unknown  and  deep, 

We  bless  Thee  day  by  day. 


200  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

For  hope  of  better  things  above, 

Through  Him  who  died  for  all ; 
For  love  divine — eternal  love, 

That  raised  us  from  our  fall ; 
For  all  the  Christian's  holy  dower, 

His  anchor,  hope,  and  stay  ; 
For  all,  our  God  of  love  and  power, 

We  bless  Thee  day  by  day. 

One  of  the  brightest  blessings  that  God  ever  gave  to 
"Adeline,"  or  Mrs.  Sergeant,  was  her  own  poetical  child,  E.  F. 
A.  Sergeant,  whose  mental  inheritance  from  her  mother  un- 
folded its  life  and  beauty  in  very  childhood.  Some  of  the 
gifted  young  songster's  verses  gave  pleasure  to  lovers  of 
tuneful  thought  and  expression  when  she  was  only  eleven 
years  old,  or  between  that  and  her  fourteenth  year.  "  For 
some  two  or  three  years,"  says  her  mother,  "every  device 
was  resorted  to — by  recreation,  employment,  and  school 
duties — to  divert  the  mind.  Those  efforts,  however,  were 
unsuccessful ;  and  what  was  evidently  the  gift  of  nature  has 
been  allowed — with  less  interruption — to  develop  itself.  .  .  . 
Mind — untrained  and  undisciplined — the  sport  of  every 
vagrant  thought  and  wild  imagination — overrun  by  the  rank 
weeds  of  sloth  and  indecision — is  a  curse  and  not  a  blessing. 
But,  cultured  by  the  hand  of  love,  enriched  and  brightened  by 
rays  from  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  kept  and  tended  'with 
all  diligence,'  and  ever  fragrant  with  the  dews  of  a  holy 
consecration  to  Heaven — then,  how  radiant  become  its  flowers 
of  truth  and  purity  ! — how  sweet  the  influence  of  its  odorous 
grace! — how  bright  the  beauty  of  its  upspringing  plants  of 
celestial  wisdom  !  " 

The  glad  mother  of  this  young  musical  soul  is  right.  And 
among  the  child's  poems  there  are  "  flowers  of  truth  and 
purity."  Such  as  the  young  poet's  utterance  to  her  own 
lyre ;  which  has  all  the  charm  of  fresh,  youthful  simplicity 
and  sweet  naturalness  of  music  : — 

Within  my  hand  is  a  little  lyre, 

And  anon  I  strike  its  chords, 
Though  I  cannot  sing  in  words  of  fire 

The  poet's  thrilling  words  ; 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN.  2S  I 

But  I  raise  my  fingers  willingly, 

And  what  I  think  I  sing, 
And  words  that  are  felt  come  thrillingly 

And  an  echo  often  bring. 

My  lyre  may  not  be  rich  and  sweet, 

But  yet  one  thing  I  know — 
It  is  not  tuned  to  repeat 

Alone  these  things  below. 
For  though  so  oft  an  earthly  strain 

May  mingle  with  my  song, 
My  voice  shall  not  be  spent  in  vain, 

It  does  to  God  belong. 

The  strings  are  feeble,  poor,  and  weak, 

But  they  are  loved  by  me, 
Some  time,  perchance,  they  too  shall  break  ; 

But  in  eternity 
I  know  my  lyre  will  speak  again, 

And  ne'er  will  break  its  strings — 
It  shall  speak  in  the  land  where  is  no  pain, 

Where  angelic  music  rings. 

My  lyre  is  not  an  idle  thing, 

It  does  not  idly  lie 
That  the  wind  alone  may  make  it  sing, 

Or  on  its  breezes  die. 
My  lyre — I  cannot  lay  it  down, 

So  ask  us  not  to  part ; 
'Tis  my  solace  from  the  world's  cold  frown, 

To  warm  and  cheer  my  heart. 

And  in  my  hand  I  hold  this  lyre, 

If  music  from  it  come, 
Pray  that  I  soon  may  hold  it  higher, 

In  my  eternal  home. 
My  lyre — it  is  a  precious  boon  ; 

And,  midst  the  world's  cold  art, 
There  needs  some  precious  boon  to  cheer 

And  sanctify  the  heart. 

So  tell  me  not  that  I  must  lay 

From  me  this  precious  thing ; 
But  what  I  fancy,  think,  and  say, 

Oh,  give  me  leave  to  sing ! 
For,  when  within  my  hand  I  hold 

This  lyre,  though  low  and  faint, 
It  will  reach  that  city  pure  of  gold, 

And  the  ears  of  God  and  saint. 

How  gentle,  and  yet  how  deeply  powerful  for  good,  are 
some  of  the  reflections  of  youthful  experience,  when  thrown 


202  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

from  one  young  soul  upon  another,  brightened  by  true  poetic 
expression!     "I  was  born/'  says  a  young  disciple,   "in  a 
home   of  sorrow.      I   was   brought   up    amidst  family  dis- 
jointments,  jarring  cares,  straits,  difficulties,  discomforts,  and 
all  but  hopeless  toil.     Sprightly  as  I  was,  gay  by  nature,  of 
warm  and  sanguine  temper,  I  found  it  very  hard,  at  times,  to 
keep  my  heart  from  bitterness,  and  to  hold  up  my  spirits 
against  the  weight  of  things.     Even  when,  by  the  grace  of 
God,  the  joy  of  early  piety  came  to  strengthen  my  soul,  the 
trials  from  without  were,  now  and  then,  sore  enough  to  make 
me  weep.     I  was  in  danger  of  thinking  my  lot  worse  than 
anybody's  else.     But  I  met  the  other  day  with  some  lines, 
written  by  a  young  girl,  that  made  me  blush  at  first,  but 
afterwards  they  put  spirit  into  me,  and  balanced  me,  some- 
how, so  that  I  feel  easy  and  content.     They  have  taught  me 
one  thing — that  my  early  trials  may  be  intended  to  prepare 
me  for  being,  in  some  humble  way,  like  my  Lord,  a  sym- 
pathizer with  those  who  are  tried,  and  a  helper  of  the  poor 
and  sorrowful,  and  in  that  way  brighter  comforts  may  come 
to  weigh  against  my  early  troubles.    Thank  God  for  E.  F.  A. 
Sergeant's  little  poem.     She  called  it,  "My  Life";  and  her 
song  shall  be  the  song  of  '  my  life  !  '  " 

Far  be  it  from  me  I  should  choose 

A  life  of  constant  light, 
For  where  the  shadows  are  not  deep, 

The  sunshine  is  not  bright. 

To  speak,  to  touch  another's  heart, 

We  must  have  felt  the  woe ; 
And  words  that  heal  another's  smart, 

Proceed  from  those  who  know. 

Experience  teacheth  us  alone 

What  joy  can  never  do  ; 
We  cannot  comfort  ere  we  feel 

The  loss  and  sorrow  too. 

To  have  no  grief  were  but  to  fill 

Our  lives  with  dreary  joy  ; 
Lone  we  should  stand  if  naught  we  met 

Our  comfort  to  destroy. 


A    CHOIR    OF    HOLY    WOMEN7.  283 

Each  one  has  met  with  woe  ;  and  I 

Shun  not  the  general  fate; 
I  would  not  fear  to  meet  the  storm, 

But  calmly  turn  and  wait. 

I  would  not  have  all  joy^all  woe, 

I  ask  for  dark  and  light ; 
For  where  the  shadows  are  not  deep, 

The  sunshine  is  not  bright. 

In  more  senses  than  one  the  Divine  promise  is  often 
fulfilled,  "  Your  sons  and  your  daughters  shall  prophecy." 
Hallowed  poetic  genius,  whether  youthful  or  mature,  is  never 
fruitless.  "Adeline"  did  not  sing  in  vain  ;  nor  has  her  gifted 
child  been  left  without  a  witness  to  the  power  of  her  early 
sonor. 


284  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

TOET1CAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SOX. 

What  is  our  duty  here  ?  to  tend 

From  good  to  better — thence  to  best ; 

Grateful  to  diink  life's  cup, — then  bend, 
Unmurmuring,  to  our  bed  of  rest ; 

To  pluck  the  flowers  that  around  us  blow, 

Scattering  their  fragrance  as  we  go. 


the  north-west  Cornish  coast  there  are  several 
remarkable  deposits  of  sand,  driven  in  seem- 
ingly by  the  sea,  at  some  time  in  the  remote 
past.  They  are  thrown  up  into  undulating 
wave-like  ridges,  or  are  left  like  chains  and 
clusters  of  small  hills,  covered  here  and  there 
with  slight  sea-side  vegetation.  One  of  these  deposits  is 
near  the  entrance  to  Hayle  Harbour,  and  stretches  along 
the  coast  for  some  distance  as  a  kind  of  sea  barrier,  behind 
which  the  dwellings  of  the  little  town  line  the  valley  road 
or  gather  on  the  upland  slope.  Inlo  this  sandy  wilderness, 
one  evening  in  May,  forty  years  ago,  six  young  men  wandered 
for  the  purpose  of  quiet  talk.  They  found  at  last  a  deep 
hollow,  in  which  they  were  entirely  secluded  from  all  human 
eyes  and  ears.  And  there  they  knelt  on  the  sand,  and 
earnestly  prayed  for  one  another  that  God  would  be  their 
guide,  instructor,  and  comforter  on  the  morrow ;  for  on  the 
morrow  they  were  to  stand  on  their  examination  as  candi- 
dates for  the  Christian  ministry.  They  prayed  until  they  felt 
that  all  their  interests  would  be  managed  by  the  same 
wisdom,  rectitude,  and  power  as  had  "  placed  the  sand  for 
the  bound  of  the  sea  by  a  perpetual  decree,  that    it  cannot 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON".  28  j 

pass  it,  and  though  the  waves  thereof  toss  themselves,  yet 
can  they  not  prevail ;  though  they  roar,  yet  can  they  not  pass 
over  it."  The  morrow  came.  In  the  morning,  at  five 
o'clock,  they  were  at  service  in  the  chapel,  and  not  long  after 
six  o'clock  they  were  standing  in  the  presence  of  their 
examiners.  One  of  the  six  was  tall,  thin,  and  pale.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  come  up  from  the  gates  of  the  grave. 
He  had  been  "  sick  of  a  fever  j"  and  had  been  raised  from 
the  bed  just  time  enough  to  stand  where  he  now  was. 
Almost  immediately  on  his  taking  his  place,  his  eye  met  the 
eye  of  one  of  the  ministers  before  whom  he  stood ;  and,  in  a 
moment,  those  two  souls  seemed  to  touch,  and  to  feel  that  they 
were  in  some  way  akin.  The  eye  which  had  met  his  was  one 
of  those  whose  look,  if  once  caught,  appears  for  ever  to  follow 
the  soul  on  whom  its  light  has  fallen.  The  minister  was 
comparatively  young,  but  his  face  was  thin  and  pallid, 
having  indeed  rather  a  death-like  pallor.  His  countenance 
seemed  to  belong  to  a  sphere  of  more  ethereal  thought  and 
feeling  than  this  world.  It  gave  evidence  of  a  penetrating 
and  discriminating  power,  finely  balancing  a  buoyant 
imagination.  At  first  sight  he  would  be  thought  to  have  the 
genius  of  a  poet  in  unison  with  the  qualities  of  a  grave 
divine.  Great  deference  was  paid  to  him,  and  in  the 
course  of  the  examination  he  was  requested  to  put  any 
questions  which  he  thought  proper  to  the  candidates.  He 
turned  to  the  pale  young  man,  as  if  his  sympathy  ran  in 
that  direction,  and  with  a  fixed  look  of  keen  scrutiny, 
softened  by  kindness,  he  asked  whether  any  inspired  passage 
occurred  to  him  just  then  showing  that  the  name  Son,  as 
applied  to  the  Second  Person  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  properly 
belonged  to  the  Redeemer's  Divine  nature.  The  reply 
was — 

"  Yes  ;  if  eternity  of  existence  and  unchangeableness  be- 
longed exclusively  to  the  Divine  nature,  the  name  Son  of 
God,  as  applied  to  Christ,  properly  belonged  to  his  Divine 
nature  ;  as  the  apostle  in  the  seventh  chapter  of  the  Epistle 
to  the  Hebrews,   speaks  of  Melchisedek,  as  a   type,    being 


286  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  without  father,  without  mother,  without  descent,  having 
neither  beginning  of  days  nor  end  of  life,  but  made,"  in 
these  respects,  "  like  unto  the  Son  of  God." 

"  I  thank  you,"  said  the  questioner  ;  but  as  he  leant  back 
in  his  seat,  a  peculiar  light  passed  over  his  intellectual 
features,  and  seemed  to  settle  in  his  beaming  eyes,  as  if  some 
happy  thought  had  sunk  into  the  depth  of  his  being.  It 
was  so.  He  had  been  mentally  laying  the  foundation  of  a 
great  argument  on  the  Divine  Sonship  of  Christ  ;  and  the 
allusion  to  Melchisedek  had  opened  a  new  current  of  thought, 
and  a  fresh  line  of  scriptural  argument ;  and  when  his 
masterly  volume  appeared,  it  contained  a  chapter  which  was 
the  fruit  of  what  passed  in  that  little  vestry  at  Hayle. 

The  one  who  had  put  the  question  was  Richard  Treffry, 
junior,  whose  name,  among  theologians,  will  ever  be 
associated  with  the  doctrine  of  Christ's  Divine  Sonship. 
Treffry  was  a  divine,  but  he  was  a  poet  too,  though  the 
living  memorials  of  his  poetic  genius  are  neither  so  widely 
known,  nor  of  such  permanent  influence,  as  the  fruits  of  his 
theological  ability  and  culture.  His  poems,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  verses,  are  in  what  may  be  called  melancholy  or 
plaintive  keeping  with  his  own  early  rapidity  of  movement 
towards  the  tomb.  He  was  never  robust ;  but  the  labours 
and  exposures  of  his  first  Methodist  circuit,  Sevenoaks,  in 
Kent,  had  a  fatal  effect  on  his  constitution — an  effect  which 
was,  perhaps,  rendered  more  certain  and  painful  by  what 
may  be  termed  youthful  inattention  to  proper  precautionary 
modes  of  obviating  the  mischiefs  of  frequent  exposure.  The 
whole  secret  of  his  future  sufferings  is  given  by  himself  in 
an  account  of  his  toil  and  rough  travel.  It  is  a  doleful 
picture,  and  affords  a  clue  to  much  of  the  mournful  tinging 
of  his  poetic  thought  and  expression.  The  first  effort  of  his 
poetic  genius  with  which  we  are  acquainted  was  put  forth 
amidst  labours  and  sufferings  which  must  have  deeply 
weighed  down  his  native  capacity  for  enjoying  the  picturesque 
and  beautiful  landscapes  of  Kent.  Friendship  seems  to 
have  given  the  first  inspiration,  and  from  his  circuit  in  "  the 


POETICAL    DIVINES LATHER    AND    SON. 


ao/ 


hill  country/'  he  congratulated  his  friend,  Mr.  Nye,  of 
Tunbridge  Wells,  on  the  birth  of  a  daughter.  Bright  as  the 
occasion  was,  the  sombre  tendency  of  his  imagination  is 
traceable  throughout  the  poem,  gentle  as  its  music  is,  and 
delicate  as  are  the  turns  of  thought ;  while  he  makes  the 
father's  joy  brighter  by  contrast,  or  chastens  that  joy  by 
showing  how  it  may  melt  into  th§  more  lasting  joys  of  an 
immortal  home. 

Awake,  my  muse,  and  swell  the  votive  lay, 

Nor  let  dull  indolence  thy  powers  enthrall ; 
O'er  all  thy  harp-strings  let  thy  fingers  stray, 

And  pour  thy  festive  strain  at  friendship's  call. 
All  hail,  my  friend  !     The  cup  which  Heaven  decrees 

To  many  a  human  fellow-being  here, 
Is  dark  and  bitter  with  the  noxious  lees 

Of  sorrow's  vintage,  and  the  draught  of  fear. 

Full  many  a  wretch  on  life's  uncertain  wave, 

In  hope's  bright  sunshine  spreads  his  ample  sail, 
Hangs  his  gay  streamers  o'er  the  glassy  grave, 

And  lightly  glides  before  the  perfumed  gale. 
But  disappointment  clouds  the  radiant  sky, 

And  tempests  rise,  of  care,  disease,  and  woe  ; 
The  curling  foam-bleach'd  billows  roar  on  high, 

Or  beat  upon  the  shrinking  bark  below. 

And  rude,  and  ruder  still  the  tempests  dash, 

And  wild,  and  wilder  still  the  winds  resound, 
And  thunders  roll,  and  lurid  lightnings  flash, 

Till  all  is  lost,  beneath  the  wild  waves  drown'd. 
Thy  lot  is  cast  beneath  a  milder  sky, 

Far  from  the  dangers  of  a  swelling  sea ; 
Glows  a  sweet  home  before  thy  glist'ning  eye, 

And  joys  connubial  pour  their  smiles  on  thee. 

Swift  fleet  the  hours  which  fill  thy  happy  year ; 

Days,  weeks,  and  months,  with  peace  and  hope  replete 
Heaven  smiles  upon  th'  hallow'd  dwelling  here, 

And  tells  of  future  bliss  at  Jesu's  feet. 
Already  has  thy  first-born  lovely  boy 

Fled  from  this  world  of  toil,  and  woe,  and  strife, 
Secur'd  the  bowers  of  everlasting  joy, 

And  grasp'd  the  amaranth  of  eternal  life. 

Wreathed  one  more  tie  to  bind  thy  heart  to  Heaven, 

Yet  linger  still  about  thy  hallow'd  soul, 
Till  back  it  spring  to  God,  by  whom  'twas  given, 

Mingling  in  heavenly  love  without  control. 


2SS  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Another  babe  to  thy  paternal  sight 

Heaven  grants,  to  train  in  wisdom's  lovely  ways, 

When  o'er  her  mind  fair  reason's  glowing  light 
Shall  rise  and  shed  its  intellectual  rays. 

Conducted  then  by  revelation's  hand, 

Sin  to  renounce,  and  faith  in  Christ  to  know ; 
Walking  and  living  by  Divine  command, 

Her  path  with  heavenly  blessedness  shall  glow. 
But,  oh !  too  fast  these  future  visions  rise, 

Life  is  uncertain  at  its  best  estate  ; 
Thy  babe,  perchance,  is  born  to  walk  the  skies 

Before  youth's  beauteous,  gay,  and  hopeful  date. 

When,  then,  thou  fold'st  her  in  thv  fond  embrace, 

And  all  the  father  rises  in  thy  heart ; 
Or  when  thou  bend'st  in  rapture  o'er  her  face, 

With  thoughts  too  big  for  utt'rance  to  impart, 
Then,  then,  oh,  think,  this  gem  is  but  Heaven's  loan  ! 

A  loan — not  gift;  but  lent  awhile — not  given. 
Much  as  I  love  thee,  child,  thou'rt  not  my  own, 

Thou  art  th'  entrusted,  hallow'd  child  of  Heaven. 

When  age  and  slow  decay,  with  stealing  pace, 

Shall  bleach  the  man-like  honours  of  thy  head, 
Upon  thy  brow  its  wrinkling  fingers  trace, 

And  all  of  youthfulness  is  past  and  dead, 
Then,  should  she  live,  in  thy  domestic  sphere, 

May  she  a  star  of  virtuous  radiance  shine, 
Gilding  the  sunset  of  thine  age  while  here, 

And  pouring  beauty  o'er  thy  life's  decline ! 

Richard  Treffry  was  the  contemporary  of  another  Methodist 
poet,  William  M.  Bunting.  They  were  ordained  side  by 
side.  They  might  be  called  representative  sons  of  the  older 
Methodist  prophets.  They  were  distinctive  types  of  a 
transition  age  in  Methodism — an  age  which,  while  they  lived, 
they  and  men  of  their  standing  and  school  held  back  from 
rushing  to  its  close.  When  they  passed,  that  age  began 
rapidly  to  yield  to  what  follows.  They  were  men  of  more 
general  culture,  it  may  be,  than  their  fathers,  but,  like  their 
fathers,  they  were  eminently  preachers,  after  the  old  rich 
intellectual  types,  both  puritan  and  episcopal  3  men  who 
drank  deeply  themselves  into  evangelical  truth,  and  solemnly 
realized  both  the  joys  and  terrors  of  an  unseen  and  eternal 
world.  Both  were  polished  men  ■  both  were  men  more  in 
the  spiritual  than  in  the  temporal  world;    both  were  poets; 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  289 

and  both  were  sacrifices  to  their  own  work  of  love — frequent, 
long,  thoughtful,  and  earnest  preaching. 

Both  Bunting  and  Trefrry  were  sons  of  remarkable  men. 
Treffry  was  the  son  of  Richard  Treffry,  who  became  a 
Methodist  preacher  in  1792.  The  father's  memory  is  balmy 
in  his  native  county.  He  was  a  manly,  noble-hearted  Corn- 
ishman.  The  early  Methodist  preachers  have  many,  many  a 
time  jogged  along  in  the  saddle  over  the  old  turnpike-road 
from  St.  Austell,  westward.  It  ran  along  on  the  summit  of 
a  ridge,  which  sent  out  its  spurs  on  either  hand  to  shelter  the 
more  cultured  valleys,  whose  tributary  streamlets  fed  the  river 
Fal,  on  the  one  side,  and,  on  the  other,  the  little  rivers  which 
finish  their  wanderings  in  romantic  Veryan  Bay.  There,  by 
the  road-side,  on  the  high  ground  not  far  from  the  ancient 
town  of  Tregony,  is  the  village  of  Newton,  the  elder  Treffry's 
birth-place.  There  he  came,  under  the  truth  from  the  lips  of 
Methodist  itinerants  j  there,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  becamt 
savingly  acquainted  with  his  Saviour  ;  and  there  he  was 
constrained  by  the  love  of  Christ  to  call  his  neighbours  to 
repentance.  The  name  and  influence  of  the  untrained  young 
evangelist  still  live  on  the  scenes  which  witnessed  the  first 
outflow  of  his  zeal. 

"I  recollect  him,"  says  one  to  whom  the  surroundings  of 
his  early  life  were  familiar ;  "  the  awe  with  which  his  appear- 
ance as  a  preacher  used  to  inspire  me  when  I  was  a  boy  seems 
to  creep  over  me  still  when  I  think  of  him.  A  dark-looking 
man,  of  strongly-marked,  manly  features,  with  eyes  that 
searched  your  very  soul  from  under  their  dark,  shaggy  brows. 
He  was  the  same  in  appearance,  allowing  for  wear  and  tear, 
when  I  saw  him,  years  afterwards,  sitting  among  public  men 
at  a  public  meeting,  unmoved,  calm,  and  grave.  I  had  learnt 
by  that  time  to  know  the  warm,  generous  feeling  of  the  great 
heart  that  beat  under  that  unpolished  outside.  A  faint  image 
of  his  first  wife  follows  me,  too.  She  was  a  Methodist 
woman  of  the  old  style,  in  spirit,  manner,  and  dress.  She 
esteemed  no  calling  more  honourable  than  that  of  her 
husband,  and  had  zeal,  intelligence,  and  hallowed  gifts  equal 

u 


29O  THE    POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

to  the  work  of  a  '  helpmeet,'  even  in  the  more  public  part 
of  his  sacred  duties.  It  is  said  that  she  would  not  shrink  from 
a  journey  into  the  country  to  conduct  a  religious  service 
among  the  rural  folk,  if  affliction  or  other  unforeseen  hinder- 
ance  fell  in  his  way.  A  story  goes  of  his  requesting  her  to 
aid  him  in  this  way  in  a  small  village  chapel  that  I  know  very 
well,  and  that  when  she  had  fairly  entered  on  her  address  to 
the  people,  he,  having  followed  her  from  home,  stepped  in,  and 
heard  one  of  his  wife's  public  utterances  for  the  rirst  time. 
It  is  said  that  after  that  she  was  not  so  easily  persuaded  to  act 
the  '  helpmeet '  in  that  particular  way.  I  used  to  hear  my 
father  say  that  Mr.  Treffry  was  a  sound,  solid  preacher, 
always  clear  as  daylight,  full  of  strong  sense,  never  talking 
above  the  people's  understanding,  and  driving  home  every- 
thing to  their  heart  and  conscience.  He  could  write,  too,  and 
sometimes  did  a  little  in  the  way  of  poetry.  My  mother, 
who  knew  what  it  was  to  see  a  darling  infant  pass  quickly 
away  to  the  skies,  used  to  quote  some  of  his  lines  '  On  the 
Death  of  an  Infant  Son  '  with  a  tear  in  her  eye — 

u  O'er  thy  much-lov'd  infant's  urn, 
Wipe  thine  eyes,  and  cease  to  mourn ; 
Cease  to  drop  the  grief-stain'd  tear, 
Dare  not  think  thy  lot  severe ; 
Dare  not  ask,  why  Heaven,  so  soon, 
Tore  from  thee  thy  bounteous  boon  ? 
Why  disease's  blasting  power 
Nipped  so  soon  the  lovely  flower  ; 
Why  those  cheeks,  as  lilies  fair, 
Must  for  worms  a  feast  prepare. 
God's  decrees  are  just  and  right, 
All  His  paths  are  paths  of  light ; 
All  created  nature  lies 
Open  to  His  piercing  eyes. 
He  hath  called  thy  babe  away 
From  the  dungeon  of  its  clay ; 
Hous'd  the  plant,  to  bloom  above, 
In  the  sunshine  of  His  love. 

Didst  thou  once,  with  raptures  high, 
On  thy  offspring  feast  thine  eye, 
And  behold  the  new-born  boy 
With  a  mother's  dear-bought  joy  ? 


POETICAL    DIVINES— FATHER    AND     SON.  29  1 

Greater  joys  and  raptures  higher 
Now  thy  feeling-  breast  should  fire  ; 
Thou  hast  nurs'd  beneath  thy  care 
A  child  for  God,  a  heavenly  heir  ! 
May  this  thought,  like  healing  balm, 
Smooth  the  tempest  to  a  calm. 

"  There  was  one  thing  about  Mr.  Treffry  which  I  never 
could  well  make  out.  I  used  to  think  that  a  man  who  could 
write  poetry — real  poetry — must  have  it  in  his  soul ;  and  if  he 
had  it  in  himself,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  would  catch  life 
from  other  poets,  and  read  their  verses  so  as  to  make  people 
feel  the  beauty  and  meaning  which  he  felt  himself.  But 
from  the  way  in  which  he  gave  out  the  hymns,  it  really  was 
no  difference  whether  one  had  more  beauty  or  meaning  than 
another.  They  might  as  well  have  had  neither  beauty  nor 
meaning.  He  would  run  along  the  lines  in  a  kind  of  drone, 
as  if  he  were  a  drone-bee  humming  in  the  bell  of  a  foxglove  ; 
and  every  word,  no  matter  what  it  meant,  or  how  important 
it  was,  had  the  same  tone,  and  time,  and  accent,  and 
emphasis,  as  its  smallest  neighbour.  Now,  for  my  part,  I 
would  rather  hear  some  men  read  the  hymn  than  I  would 
listen  tothe  preaching  of  others  :  the  hymn  from  some  lips 
has  more  life  than  many  a  sermon.  And  yet  they  say  Mr. 
Treftry  enjoyed  other  people's  poetry,  and  had  tune  enough 
in  him  to  make  poetry  himself.  I  suppose  it  was  with  him 
in  that,  as  it  was  in  some  other  things.  You  could  not  tell 
at  first  what  the  man  was  within  from  what  appeared  with- 
out. From  his  looks,  and  his  way  of  speaking  and  behaving 
sometimes,  you  would  think  that  he  was  a  sour,  rude,  rough, 
unmannerly  man.  It  appeared  as  if  he  had  never  learnt 
manners ;  as  if  he  never  cared  to  learn  them  ;  and  as  if  not 
even  the  grace  of  God  had  given  him  any  polish.  But  stop 
a  little.  Find  him  out  fairly,  and  you  would  soon  be  charmed 
into  love  for  him,  as  a  right-hearted,  gentle,  tender-spirited, 
benign,  and  loving  man.  He  had  the  soul,  at  least,  of  a 
Christian  gentleman.  The  diamond  was  pure,  though  the 
coating,  for  a  time,  was  rough.  So  it  might  be  as  to  his 
real  taste  and  talent  for  poetry.     One  of  his  first  pieces,  at 


292  THE  POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

any  rate  the  first  that  I  ever  read,  was  in  one  of  the  old 
magazines,  and  it  was,  like  very  many  of  the  poems  in  the 
Methodist  magazines  of  those  days,  all  '  to  the  memory '  of 
somebody  or  other.  This  was  '  On  Miss  Hannah  Treffry, 
who  died  of  fever,  November  22,  1802,  in  the  20th  year  of 
her  asre.'     She  was  his  sister. 

o 

"  In  what  soft  numbers  shall  my  muse  rehearse, 
The  mournful  subject  of  my  humble  verse  ; 
With  pensive  mind  deplore  th'  untimely  doom, 
And  trace  a  sister's  passage  to  the  tomb  ? 
"What,  though  thy  parents  b  ast  no  honoured  name, 
No  worthless  grandeur,  no  exploits  of  fame  ; 
What,  though  no  splendid  epithets  of  praise 
Announced  thy  birth,  or  mark'd  thy  early  days  ; 
What,  though  no  passion  prompted  thee  to  roam 
Far  from  the  limits  of  thy  humble  home; 
What,  though  thy  early  hours  were  ne'er  applied 
To  high  ambition  and  excessive  pride, 
To  waste  thy  strength  with  dissipated  throngs, 
In  midnight  revels,  or  by  impious  songs ; 
What,  though  to  thee  no  bold,  adventurous  swains, 
In  amorous  ditties  and  poetic  strains, 
Paid  grateful  homage — faithless  vows  express'd, 
To  raise  a  tumult  in  thy  peaceful  breast ; — 

Yet  shall  the  muse  for  thee  the  tribute  bring, 
\  In  pensive  numbers  touch  the  tuneful  string — 

For  thee  in  melancholy  strains  declare, 
The  soft  endearments  of  thy  tender  care  ; 
For  thee  this  memory  faithful  shall  retrace 
The  open  features  that  adorn'd  thy  face  ; 
Review  thy  actions,  innocently  kind, 
The  fairest  index  of  an  artless  mind  ; 
For  thee  this  breast  shall  heave  the  labouring  sigh, 
While  the  tears  stagnate  in  my  mournful  eye ; 
Nor  shall  thy  lovely  image  e'er  depart, 
While  life  invigorates  this  hallowed  heart. 

See  the  pale  wretch,  absorb'd  in  anxious  care, 
And  stung  with  deepest  anguish  and  despair, 
Who  inly  groans  beneath  the  load  of  life, 
And  longs  to  end  the  dark  and  doubtful  strife, 
Is  left  unnoticed — such  the  high  decree — 
While  the  fierce  archer  shoots  his  darts  at  thee  ! 
So  when  the  flowers  of  the  spring  display 
Their  silken  leaves  to  catch  Che  solar  ray, 
The  blasting  tempest  checks  the  beauteous  bloom, 
And  wastes  the  pleasing  prospects  ere  'tis  noon . 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON-  293 

With  keenest  grief  I  see  thy  labouring  breast 
By  torturing  pain  and  anxious  care  oppress'd  ; 
The  fierce  disease  increasing  strength  obtains, 
And  the  pale  current  stagnates  in  the  veins ; 
Around  thy  bed  thy  weeping  parents  view 
(While  ceaseless  tears  their  aged  cheeks  bedew) 
Their  tender  offspring  panting  hard  for  breath, 
And  the  heart  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  ! 
What  now  avail  the  well-proportion'd  frame, 
The  vigorous  body,  or  the  youthful  flame; 
The  potent  charms  which  mark  the  healing  art, 
Or  the  big  sigh  that  rends  the  parent's  heart ! 
All  ineffectual ! — prayers  and  tears  are  vain 
To  extract  the  arrow,  or  assuage  the  pain  ; 
For  ere  this  globe,  which  pen  lent  hangs  in  space, 
Had  twice  perform'd  its  swift,  diurnal  race, 
The  foe  relentless  spoil'd  thy  tender  form, 
And  took  the  enfeebl'd  citadel  by  storm  : 
While  the  blest  spirit  upward  bent  its  way, 
And  left  the  putrid  mass  of  lifeless  clay  1 

Oh,  could  the  muse  on  sacred  pinions  rise, 
And  trace  thy  rapid  passage  through  the  skies, 
With  steadfast  eye  thy  blest  escape  survey, 
From  midnight  darkness  to  immortal  day  ! 
See,  from  the  source  of  uncreated  light, 
Celestial  glories  burst  cpon  thy  sight ; 
The  joyful  view  would  bring  the  kind  relief, 
And  chase  this  sad  satiety  of  giief, 
Dispel  the  gloom  that  hovers  in  my  breast, 
Absorb  my  tears,  and  put  my  doubts  to  rest. 

But  sullen  clouds  of  thickest  darkness  spread 
Their  sable  curtains  o'er  the  silent  dead ; 
The  silent  dead  their  final  fate  conceal, 
Nor  can  the  boldest  fancy  pierce  the  veil; 
But  though  the  veil  obstructs  the  human  sight, 
The  ways  of  God  are  equal,  just,  and  right ; 
This  cheering  truth  inspires  my  humble  breast, 
With  calm  submission  to  the  high  behest." 

According  to  the  "old  magazine"  alluded  to  in  these 
recollections,  this  utterance  of  Mr.  Trefrry's  muse  was  issued 
in  Truro,  just  before  be  left  that  town  for  his  appointment 
at  Camelford.  Camelford  !  What  and  where  is  Camelford  ? 
The  question  may  not  be  unfairly  put  even  in  these  days, 
for  as  yet  the  geography  of  their  own  country  has  not  a  very 
important  part  in  the  schooling  of  English  scholars.  It  may 
still  be  possible  for  a  cockney  to  know  just  as  much  as  the 


294  THE   POETS  OF   METHODISM. 

old  London  watchman,  who,  while  chatting  with  a  traveller 
at  night,  as  he  was  directing  him  to  his  inn,  inquired  from 
whence  his  companion  came,  and  when  told  from  Cornwall, 
cried  :  "  Cornwall !  Ah  ! — yes  !  Cornwall — that's  outside 
Britain,  I  think !  "  Camelford  is  a  queer  old  town  in  Corn- 
wall, and  yet,  according  to  landmarks,  it  is  neither  "outside" 
nor  inside  Britain.  It  is  in  a  valley,  among  the  mountain 
moorlands  of  the  ancient  border-line  between  north-western 
Saxondom  and  the  land  of  the  Cornish  Britons.  It  is  on  the 
river  Camel,  or  "winding  Alan,*'  which,  after  many  a  twist 
and  turn,  rinds  its  way  into  the  Bristol  Channel.  It  is  under 
the  shadows  of  Roughtor  and  Brownwilly  on  the  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  it  is  sheltered  by  the  heights  which  run  out 
to  the  wild  cliff,  on  which  are  the  wreather-beaten  ruins  of 
Tintagel,  or  King  Arthur's  Castle.  It  marks,  as  tradition 
says,  the  scene  of  the  battle,  fatal  both  to  Arthur  and  his 
nephew,  Modred,  in  542  •  and  of  a  later  contest  in  823, 
between  the  Saxon  Egbert  and  the  Western  Britons. 
The  little  town  is  in  the  parish  of  Lanteglos ;  and  the 
difficulty  of  finding  out  its  whereabouts  was  once  felt  even 
by  a  parson  in  search  of  it  as  his  ecclesiastical  u  living."  Dr. 
Daniel  Lombard,  who  was  the  son  of  a  French  Protestant, 
and  had,  until  his  presentation  to  Lanteglos,  spent  most  of 
his  days  abroad,  came,  in  the  early  part  of  the  last  century, 
to  take  possession  of  bis  parish  before  his  pronunciation  of 
English  names  was  quite  complete.  He  travelled  on  and  on, 
passed  through  the  place  he  was  seeking,  found  his  way 
down  to  the  Land's  End  and  back  again,  vainly  inquiring,  in 
an  accent  which  nobody  understood,  for  Lan-te-glos-juxta 
Camail  Ford.     He  found  it  at  last,  and  died  there. 

In  1803,  Mr.  Treffry  came  to  it  with  less  difficulty,  and 
was  the  first  local  Methodist  bishop  who  took  up  his  abode 
in  Camelford  as  the  centre  of  his  evangelizing  action.  Here 
his  poetic  faculty  was  cherished.  And  here,  soon  after  his 
verses  on  his  sister's  death  were  published  in  the  "old 
magazine,"  his  son  Richard  was  born.  That  son  grew  up 
with   an   instinctive  liking   for   the  peculiar  scenery  of  his 


TOETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  2C)^ 

native  province.  Years  afterwards,  when  it  had  been  proved 
that  he  inherited  poetic  power  from  his  less  cultured  but 
naturally  tasteful  father,  and  when  he  had  shown  that  his 
poetic  genius  was  in  harmony  with  his  noble  gifts  as  a  divine 
and  a  preacher,  in  a  letter  to  his  father  he  gave  beautiful 
expression  to  the  feelings  with  which  he  visited  his  birth- 
place and  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  "  Off  in  a  car  to 
Camelford — dined  at  Mr.  Ivey's,  with  Mr.  Truscott — went 
to  see  the  house  in  which  I  was  born.  .  .  .  Well,  you  know 
all  the  rest,  or  may  guess  it.  .  .  .  How  the  smell  of  burning 
turf,  and  the  smiling  faces,  and  the  broad,  western  dialect  of 
the  peasantry,  and  the  blossoming  primroses,  and  the  rude, 
rugged,  precipitous  rocks,  all  were  right  pleasant  to  my  sense  ; 
how  I  felt  that  I  had  something  of  a  Cornish  heart  still,  in 
spite  of  the  vicissitudes  of  the  world  ;  how  I  longed  for 
some  rational  company  to  admire  with  me  certain  beautiful 
edifices  exhibiting  the  elementary  principles  of  architecture  ; 
how  I  ejaculated  wishes  to  the  throne  of  grace  for  you  and 
mother ;  how  I  sung — 

"  Could  I  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 
And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Not  Jordan's  stream  nor  death's  cold  flood 
Should  fright  me  from  the  shore ! 

All  this,  and  a  thousand  other  things,  you  must  fancy." 

Like  his  father,  he  had  become~a  Methodist  preacher.  He 
entered  on  this  work  from  the  same  principle  and  with  like 
feelings  and  motives  as  did  his  venerable  parent ;  who  records 
his  heart's  joy  in  his  son's  course  : — "To  have  a  son  engaged 
in  the  work  of  the  ministry,  was  to  me  a  source  of  unspeak- 
able pleasure ;  and  especially  the  Methodist  ministry,  which 
in  early  life  won  the  warmest  affections  of  my  heart,  and 
which,  after  a  lapse  of  more  than  thirty  years'  engagement  in 
it,  then  possessed  the  most  cordial  approbation  of  my  judg- 
ment, and  held  the  highest  place  in  my  esteem.*' 

As  the  poetical  evangelist  moved  about  in  his  itinerant 
work,  in  Surrey,  Yorkshire,  Nottingham,  and  London,  he 
always  evidenced  his  love  for  the  beautiful  in  nature.     His 


296  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

correspondence  often  showed  his  gift  of  poetic  expression ; 
and  he  learnt  to  enjoy  sympathy  and  intercourse  with  souls 
akin  to  his  own.  Among  those  to  whom  he  became  the 
more  closely  knit  by  the  bonds  of  taste  and  affection,  was  an 
old  colleague  of  his  father's.  The  intimacy  must  have  begun 
while  he  was  yet  a  boy  ;  but  when  his  old  friend  passed  away 
from  his  itinerancy,  just  as  the  young  poet  had  closed  his 
first  year's  labour  as  a  pilgrim  preacher,  the  feelings  of  his 
heart  were  poured  forth  in  "  Stanzas  inscribed  to  the  Memory 
of  the  Rev.  John  Bryant,  by  one  who  Loved  him  while  he 
Lived,  and  who  still  venerates  his  Character,  and  laments  his 
Loss:" — 

Peace,  all  is  peace  !  "  th'  expiring  warrior  said, 

While  o'er  him  friendship  hung  in  speechless  woe, 
And  mission'd  envoys  watch'd  his  dying  bed, 

To  bear  his  spirit  from  these  scenes  below. 

On  his  pale  cheek  there  came  the  heavenly  glow, 
Immortal  hope  glanced  brightly  from  his  eye, 

Telling  of  victory  o'er  every  foe  ; 
Calm  as  the  lake  untouch'd  by  zephyr's  sigh 
The  messengers  of  glory  saw  the  Christian  die. 

The  strife  is  closed  ! — from  her  incumbering  clod, 

Upborne  on  angels'  wings,  the  spirit  flies 
Swift  towards  the  dwelling  of  her  Father — God, 

And  swells  with  new  and  untold  ecstacies  ; 

In  the  vast  regions  of  her  native  skies 
Beholds  what  human  tongue  can  ne'er  unfold — 

Floods  of  unfading  gloiy  ;  to  her  eyes 
The  secrets  of  eternity  unroll'd ; 
And  on  her  ear  came  pouring  strains  from  harps  of  gold. 

Farewell,  dear  saint !  our  loves  to  thee  shall  cling, 

And  if,  while  basking  in  th'  eternal  bourn, 
Our  grief  could  earthward  bend  thy  angel  wing, 

Oh!  would  not  tears  embalm  thy  humble  urn, 

Till  to  thy  kindred  dust  thou  should'st  return  ? 
Forgive  the  frenzy  of  the  thought !     Ah,  no ! 

No;  while  the  pastor,  husband,  friend,  we  mourn, 
"We  would  not  bind  thee  to  this  world  of  woe  : 
Go,  then,  to  thy  bright  mansion,  loved  and  honoured,  go  t 

Tell  me,  ye  guardians  of  th'  immortal  spheres, 
Who  watch  the  springs  of  human  sympathy, 

Do  happy  spirits  cherish  human  tears  ? 

And  when  the  breast  is  cold,  and  dim  the  eye, 
In  the  dark  frost  of  reckless  agony, 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  297 

Do  they  the  kindly  influence  distil — 

The  welcome,  melting,  sorrow-soft'ning  sigh  ? 
Do  they  the  heart  with  balmy  unction  fill, 
Like  dew  descending  on  the  earthquake-riven  hill  ? 

O  Thou,  that  hearest  prayer !  we  look  to  Thee ; 

To  Thee,  thy  people's  Helper  in  distress, 
Save  us  from  murmuring  at  Thy  dread  decree ! 

We  drain  the  cup,  the  cup  of  bitterness. 

Our  worldly,  selfish  yearning  we  confess. 
Our  friend  is  gone,  but  Thou  art  still  our  Friend, 

Unknowing  lapse  of  time,  or  change  of  place  : 

Our  bud,  our  hopes,  from  earth-born  dreams  ascend 

To  heaven,  to  Thee,  to  rest  and  joy  that  ne'er  shall  end. 

Farewell,  dear  saint !  no  more  shall  sorrow's  frown 

O'er  life's  enjoyments  cast  its  baleful  hue ; 
Nor  dark  affliction  weigh  thy  spirit  down  ! 

No  more  shall  pain  thy  wearied  form  subdue, 

Or  fierce  temptation  dim  thy  mental  view. 
Long,  long  the  mortal  fight  thou  hast  maintain'd  ; 

At  thy  broad  shield  full  oft  hell's  arrows  flew; 

But  now,  O  joy  !  the  victory  is  gain'd, 
And  endless  life  and  heavenly  blessedness  obtain'd. 

The  grave  thy  body  hath  received  in  trust, 

Awhile  in  silence  and  in  peace  to  sleep ; 
And  Christ  stands  sentinel  upon  the  dust, 

Safe  to  redemption's  destin'd  day  to  keep. 

Oh  !  then,  no  more  o'er  thee  shall  sorrow  weep  ; 
For  wearied  nature  shall  at  length  expire ; 

And  angel  harvesters  the  world  shall  reap  ; 
Then,  in  the  wreathing  of  the  final  fire, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  to  dark  oblivion  shall  retire ! 

Then  the  deep  groan  of  dust-clad  souls  shall  cease ; 

Then,  then,  mortality  itself  shall  die ; 
O'er  the  expanse  shall  reign  perennial  peace, 

And  Death  be  swallow'd  up  in  victory. 

The  phoenix  body  from  the  earth  shall  fly, 
Clad,  for  the  glory  of  its  new  abode, 

In  the  bright  vestments  of  eternity. 
Fleet  quickly,  Time  !  away,  earth's  wearying  load !] 
The  bride  of  heaven  descends,  the  spouse  of  Christ  our  God. 

In  this  we  have  deep  sympathies  with  suffering  human 
nature,  and  close  fellowship  of  feeling  with  the  spiritual  and 
unseen  world  around  us ;  calm  confidence  in  Him  who  lives 
to  hold  the  keys  of  hades  and  of  death,  and  jubilant  anticipa- 
tions of  an  immortal  future,  all  truly  set  to  music  by  one  who 


298  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

had  no  mean   gift  of  uttering  happy  thought  and  feeling  in 
tender  and  graceful  measure, 

The  early  formation  of  friendships  hasj  in  some  cases,  a 
mystery  about  it.  In  looking  at  the  linked  characters,  as 
they  have  been  subsequently  developed,  one  is  at  a  loss  to 
know  how  the  hard  and  the  gentle,  the  selfish  and  the 
unselfish,  the  pretentious  and  the  modest,  the  humbug  and 
the  real,  ever  get  linked  as  they  sometimes  are.  Yet  so  it 
has  been.  This  can  be  accounted  for,  perhaps,  only  on  the 
principle  that  those  who  have  thus  early  associated  under  the 
overmastering  influence  of  Christian  first  love,  have  ever 
afterwards  felt  themselves,  on  the  one  side  at  least,  bound  by 
the  law  of  charity  to  hold  the  bond  sacred  through  all  the 
subsequent  variations  of  taste,  temper,  and  pursuit.  Some 
such  associations  were  probably  formed  by  the  younger 
Treffry  in  the  warmth  of  early  Christian  affection.  And  to 
these,  doubtless,  he  was  faithful,  though  some  people  might 
find  it  difficult  to  know  how  or  why.  At  all  events,  the 
Church  and  the  world  have  not  unfrequently  been  the  better 
for  things  which  they  have  failed  to  understand.  Were  it 
not  for  some  of  his  earlier  associations,  our  young  poet- 
preacher  might  never  have  left  us  even  a  few  good  proofs  of 
his  poetic  talent.  There  might  not,  at  least,  have  been  so 
much  in  the  elegiac  form  among  his  remains.  The  only 
other  available  specimen  of  his  elegiac  stanzas  appears  to 
have  been  written  while  he  was  in  Nottingham,  in  the  height 
of  his  popularity  as  a  preacher  and  public  speaker  •  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  travail  and  toil  with  which  men  endowed  as  he 
was  are  liable  to  be  taxed,  even  to  the  death.  But  his  work 
was  one  of  love  ;  and  if  the  more  public  work  was  sometimes 
made  to  yield  to  the  claim  for  a  moment's  private  indulgence 
of  his  cultured  taste,  even  that  semblance  of  relaxation  was  a 
work  of  love,  as  will  be  seen  in  his  verses  to  the  memory  of 
a  young  lady  who  had  been  taken  to  a  brighter  world  from 
the  home  of  her  childhood.  The  poem  is  brightened  with 
some  gems  of  thought  richly  set.  It  shows  fine  discrimina- 
tion, and  exquisite  tenderness.     There  is  a  tasteful  variety 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  299 

and  delicate  beauty  of  illustration.  The  poet's  concep- 
tion sometimes  rises  above  the  beautiful,  and  he  sustains 
throughout  appropriate  force  and  music  of  diction.  The 
elegy  does  honour  to  the  writer's  imagination,  taste,  and 
feeling : — 

As  some  bright  cloud,  by  evening's  sunlight  painted, 

Glows  in  the  purple  of  celestial  dye  ; 
And,  ere  its  beauty  by  earth's  mists  is  tainted, 

Fades  to  the  calmness  of  the  spotless  sky  ; 
Such  was  she  to  us  in  her  purity. 

Her  rainbow  life  has  melted  into  light, 
And  like  a  strain  of  magic  melody, 

That  pauses  on  the  bosom  of  the  night, 
She  was  on  earth  an  hour — then  heavenward  wing'd  her  flight. 

Yet  as  the  echo  of  such  music  swells 

The  pensive  heart  through  every  coming  year, 
E'en  so  thine  image,  my  fair  sister,  dwells, 

To  tender  thought  and  hallow'd  memory  dear. 
Sister! — ay,  so  1  called  thee;  and  when  here 

Thou  would'st  have  smiled  approval  of  the  name  ; 
Still  thus  I  hail  thee,  by  this  votive  tear, 

Since  he,  thy  brother,  is  to  me  the  same, 
And  must  be,  while  life  beats  within  this  mortal  frame. 

She  sleepeth — where  ?  not  in  the  tearless  tomb, 

Where  tired  misanthropy  demands  repose; 
Nor  went  her  sun  down  in  the  fearful  gloom 

Which  sleeps  upon  the  parting  day  of  those 
Who  laugh  through  life,  to  tremble  at  its  close  ; 

Yet  she  had  smiles  ! — smiles  we  may  ne'er  forget ; 
Yes,  she  had  smiles  and  tears  ;  as  the  young  rose 

Most  fragrant  seems,  with  evening  dew-drops  wet, 
So  beautiful  her  face,  where  smiles  and  tears  were  met. 

Oh  !  there  are  tears  for  thee— big,  bursting  tears, 

(Not  those  in  heartless  mockery  which  flow), 
And  yet  our  sorrow  is  not  that  which  tears 

The  heart  like  lightning ;  not  the  speechless  woe, 
The  frenzied,  paralyzing  grief,  which  ne'er  may  know 

Aught  but  despair  ;  hope  beams  upon  thy  grave, 
Not  as  a  meteor  in  its  wand'ring — no  ; 

For  He  whose  arm  almighty  is  to  save, ' 
Walk'd  o'er  death's  tide,  and  shone  to  thee  across  the  wave. 

She  sleepeth — where?  not  in  the  warrior's  grave; 

Her  winding-sheet  is  pure  ;  nor  rests  her  head 
Deep  in  the  darkness  of  some  ocean  cave, 

Like  a  lost  pearl ;   nor  in  the  marriage  bed  ; 


300  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

And  yet,  my  virgin  sister,  thou  art  wed ; 

Swells  on  our  ear  thy  nuptials'  festal  strain, 
And  thine  espousals  chaste  are  heralded 

Through  heaven's  high  arches ;  angels  swell  thy  train, 
And  hail  thee  as  a  bride — a  bride  without  a  stain. 
But  who  is  He,  the  Bridegroom  of  thy  soul? 

He  with  the  crimson  vest  and  flaming  eye; 
Beneath  whose  feet  clouds,  fires,  and  tempest's  roll ; 

Whose  smile  is  bliss,  whose  frown  is  misery ; 
From  out  whose  glances  countless  lightnings  fly; 

Who  speaks,  and  speaking,  cleaves  the  spheres  asunder ; 
Who  sways  His  sceptre  o'er  earth,  sea,  and  sky, 

To  whom  ten  thousand  angels  praises  thunder, 
While  startled  demons  flee,  o'erwhelmed  with  fear  and  wonder? 

Tis  He  who  quafFd  the  mantling  cup  of  pain ; 

Writhed  in  fierce  anguish  in  the  noon-day  night ; 
That  man  might  bedelivei'd  from  the  chain — 

The  fearful  yoke  of  sin  :  that  heavenly  light 
Might  illustrate  eternity  to  sight, 

And  hope  of  blind  and  reckless  souls;  'tis  He 
Who  vanquish'd  in  the  fell  and  mortal  fight 

The  powers  of  hell,  and  rose  to  Heaven  to  be 
For  ever  King  of  Kings  !  the  Christ !  unconquer'd  Deity  ! 
Beautiful  spirit;  when  the  Bridegroom's  word 

Thrill'd  on  thine  ear  to  summon  thee  away  ; 
When  gently  parted  was  the  silver  cord 

Which  bound  thee  in  thy  sisterhood  of  clay, 
And  angels  rapt  thee  to  thy  native  day ; 

Didst  thou  quiver  in  some  sudden  fears, 
As  swift  thou  flittedst  through  th'  empyrean  way, 

To  where  Heaven's  gate  its  lofty  arch  uprears  ? 
Andhadst  thou  aught  of  sympathy  with  human  tears? 
Dost  thou  yet  mark  the  red  and  swollen  eye, 

The  pallid  cheek,  the  corrugated  brow, 
The  heart  dilated  in  strong  agony  ? 

Know'st  thou  the  grief  which  wrings  our  spirits  now  ? 
And,  oh  !  if  angels  pity,  wilt  not  thou  ? 

And  when  that  solemn  pensheness  distils 
O'er  our  sad  souls,  we  know  not  whence  or  how, 

Is  it  not  thou  that  hold'st  the  urn  whence  trills 
The  stream  of  heavenly  peace,  which  all  our  sorrow  stills  ? 
Yes  !  thou  wilt  come,  in  stillness  of  the  even, 

When  light  is  fading  from  the  dark  blue  sky. 
When  no  cloud  sleeps  upon  the  face  of  Heaven, 

When  floats  the  night-wind's  softest  minstrelsy, — 
Wilt  come  from  out  thy  dwelling-place  on  high. 

Yes  !  thou  wilt  breathe  upon  our  secret  soul, 
Inspire  high  thinkings  of  eternity  ; 

The  mists  of  earth  from  off  our  spirits  roll, 
And  wing  our  ardent  hopes  to  Heaven's  illustrate  goal. 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  50  I 

As  through  the  night  of  heaven  some  mellow'd  beam 

Upon  the  soul  ot  sleeping  faith  is  shed, 
So  thou  on  earth  wert  like  a  holy  dream, 

Bright  and  distinct,  but,  oh  !  too  quickly  fled  ; 
And  now  reality  is  perfected  ; 

Thou  art  an  angel  of  the  upper  skies  ; 
And  when  the  final  trump  shall  rouse  the  dead, 

Thy  spotless  beauty  from  the  earth  shall  rise, 
And  endlessly  expand  in  quenchless  ecstacies  ! 

Alas,  for  the  fair  promises  of  life  to  ripening  talent  and 
conscious  power  for  good  !  Our  young  poet  broke  down 
with  his  bright  prospects  before  him  ;  and  was  called  from 
the  joys  of  action  to  retire  and  to  languish  in  weakness 
and  decline. 

Spirits  are  not  finely  touch'd 
But  to  fine  issues. 

But,  as  in  Treffry's  case,  these  issues  are  sometimes 
brought  out  through  the  fires  of  affliction.  In  the  month  of 
November,  1830,  he  is  on  his  way  to  Penzance,  in  his  native 
county,  seeking  that  equable  climate  which  is  unsurpassed  in 
its  adaptations  to  sufferers  such  as  he.  It  was  in  that  quiet 
retreat,  in  the  bosom  of  that  beautiful  bay,  that  he  matured 
and  sent  forth  those  theological,  moral,  and  biographical 
pages  which  must  ever  distinguish  his  memory.  It  was 
beautiful  to  see  him,  in  his  retirement,  so  peaceful,  so  hopeful, 
so  full  of  gratitude,'  and,  at  times,  so  cheerfully  resigned, 
amidst  so  much  that  would  keep  frail  human  nature  in  the 
dust.  Even  when  one  with  whom  he  corresponded  had 
possibly  winged  a  temptation  to  the  tremulous  invalid  by 
telling  him  about  the  health  and  competence  which  he 
himself  enjoyed,  the  meek  answer  is,  "  the  general  aspect  of 
my  affairs  is  comfortable.  Health  and  competence  are 
blessings  which  we  may  not  estimate,  except  at  a  very  high 
price ;  but  disease  and  poverty  may  consist  with  true  enjoy- 
ment, as  my  present  state  abundantly  testifies."  Notwith- 
standing disease  and  poverty,  however,  he  was  sometimes  in 
his  poetic  vein.  One  effusion  of  his  muse,  in  his  Penzance 
cottage,  remains  to  us,  and  this  was,  as  far  as  we  know,   his 


. 


302  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

last.     It  serves  to  indicate  the  bent  of  his  mind  as  he  movec 
towards  the  end. 

"I  have  made  a  bit  of  poetry,"  says  he  to  his  father ;  "I 
wrote  it  one  evening  this  week,  in  consequence  of  the 
subject  coming  into  my  head  in  some  of  the  sleepless  hours 
of  the  night."     The  verses  are  on  "  Saul  of  Tarsus  "  : — 

No  trumpet  was  blown,  as  the  gate  they  pass'd, 
Nor  banner  flung  over  their  fierce  array ; 

But  they  rode  like  the  breath  of  the  desert  blast, 
Fleetly  and  silently  passing  away  ; 

Vet  many  look'd  on  that  haughty  man, 

Whose  eye  was  the  star  of  the  fiery  van. 

With  frequent  fasts  his  cheek  was  paled, 
And  there  sat  a  frown  on  his  brow  of  pride ; 

And  scorn  on  his  quiv'ring  lip  prevail'd 

As  he  thought  on  the  Name  of  the  Crucified  ; 

And  his  heart  was  as  hard  as  the  steel  of  his  spear, 

To  the  whispers  of  pity,  or  the  murmurs  of  fear. 

On — on  ! — the  towers  of  Damascus  are  nigh, 
The  accurs'd  Nazarenes  are  giv'n  to  our  hand  ; 

When,  lo  !  an  ineffable  blaze  from  on  high 

Burst,  sudden  as  thought,  on  the  hurrying  band ; 

And  the  glowing  flood  of  that  flashing  light 

Dims  the  cloudless  sun  in  his  noonday  height. 

Vain  is  the  speed  of  the  startled  horse, 

And  vain  is  the  force  of  the  glittering  spear ; 

The  scorner  hath  ended  his  ruthless  course  ; 
The  victor  of  Galilee  triumpheth  here, 

And  His  words  of  mystic  spirit  appal 

The  awe-stricken  heart  of  the  prostrate  Saul. 

There  is  night  on  his  eye,  and  remorse  on  his  brow, 
As  he  sits  in  his  chamber,  helpless,  alone ; 

For  the  deeds  woke  up  in  his  memory  now, 
Can  riches,  or  blood,  or  sorrow  atone  ? 

Yet  hope  in  fair  promise  the  future  arrays, 

For  the  Crucified  pleads,  and  the  Pharisee  prays. 

This  thrilling  bit  is  the  more  precious  from  the  circum- 
stances under  which  it  came  from  his  soul.  He  was  soon 
to  be  in  the  immortal  home  of  poetry,  and  music,  and 
truth.  In  one  of  his  last  letters  to  his  father  he  says,  "  You 
will  receive  this  sheet,  if  all  be  well,  on  my  birthday,  which 
as  it  is  likely  to  prove  the  last,  will  also,  I  do  not  doubt,  be 


POETICAL    DIVINES FATHER    AND    SON.  303 

the  best  birthday  of  my  life.  My  kind  love  to  Mr. 
William  Bunting.  Tell  him  I  am  going  down  towards  the 
grave  tranquil  within,  and  surrounded  without  by  all  the 
mercies  I  can  desire." 

He  lived  to  see  the  beginning  of  1838.  "  On  the  morning 
of  the  new  year/'  says  Mrs.  Treffry,  "  about  three  o'clock, 
he  awoke  from  a  refreshing  sleep,  and,  calling  me  to  him, 
said,  *  Well,  I  am  spared,  contrary  to  the  opinion  of  my  dear 
friends,  to  see  the  beginning  of  the  year  1838.  And  what 
shall  be  my  salutation  to  my  dear  wife  this  morning  ?  Shall 
I  wish  her  a  happy  new  year  ?  Yes ;  I  believe  she  will  find 
it  to  be  such  in  the  highest  sense ;  the  most  happy  in  the 
abundant  overflowings  of  Divine  grace  and  consolation.' 
'And  what  shall  I  wish  you  ?  '  I  asked.  '  That  I  may  spend 
it  in  Heaven  ?'  was  his  reply."     The  wish  was  fulfilled. 

A  little  before  his  death  he  expressed  a  desire  to  see  his 
wife.  The  interview  was  deeply  affecting,  and  the  parting 
scene  inexpressibly  solemn.  "We  had  often,"  said  she, 
"  conversed  of  that  dreaded  hour  ;  "  and  it  was  now  come. 
With  a  look  of  ineffable  tenderness,  he  bade  her  adieu  ;  and 
she,  with  a  tremulous  voice,  and  in  an  agony  of  grief,  said, 
"We  shall  soon  meet  in  glory."  "O  yes,  yes  !  "  he  replied, 
with  marked  emphasis,  but  with  difficult  utterance.  She 
expressed  her  willingness  to  remain  with  him,  if  she  could 
minister  to  him  any  consolation ;  but  he  said,  "  No ;  go 
and  pray."  "This  was  the  last  sound,"  says  Mrs.  Treffry, 
"  I  ever  heard  from  those  lips,  whose  melody  of  tone  had  so 
often  fallen  on  my  ear  and  heart  with  a  power  of  subduing 
and  melting  influence." 

He  departed  in  the  presence  of  his  father,  leaving  the  noble 
old  man  to  await  his  summons  into  the  world  to  which  his 
sons  and  their  mother  had  gone  before  him.  In  four  years 
from  his  son's  departure  he  too  had  fled.  He  finished  his 
mortal  life  in  quiet  old  Maidenhead.  "Thank  God,"  said  he, 
a  few  months  before  the  end,  "  I  just  creep  about  the  house ; 
that  is  all.  I  have  little  acute  pain  ;  my  sufferings  are  very 
tolerable ;  but  the  restlessness  and  weariness  I  feel  are  not  so 


304  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

easily  borne.  I  begin  to  languish  and  sigh  after  that  better 
country,  '  the  house  of  my  Father  and  God,*  whither  the 
forerunner  is  already  entered,  and  entered  for  me,  to  plead 
my  cause,  and  intercede  on  my  behalf.  Oh,  what  deep  and 
unfeigned  gratitude  animates  my  breast  for  a  good  hope, 
through  grace,  that  I  shall  live  for  ever  !  I  have  no  merit ;  I 
mention  none  of  my  own  righteousness.  The  labours  of  my 
life  are  all  laid  aside  j  I  value  them  not.  I  am  a  sinner,  but 
Christ  is  my  Saviour,  and  no  other  do  I  need."  Brave  old 
pilgrim  !     He  is  among  Methodist  songsters  for  ever ! 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  305 


CHAPTER  XV. 

TWO  POETICAL   METAPHYSICIANS. 

Methought  I  heard  a  reverend  old  man  speak  ; 

Grey  were  his  locks,  his  eyes  were  calmly  bright : 
The  rosiness  of  youth  was  on  his  cheek, 

And  as  he  spoke,  a  heaven  of  truth  and  light 
Open'd  itself  upon  my  inner  sight. 


MODERN  writer,  whose  aristocratic  volumes 
contain  very  many  pages  of  rich  and  rare  English, 
becomes  popular,  for  one  at  least,  when  he 
describes  a  character  figured  by  some  great  painter 
as  "small-headed,  not  being  specially  given  to 
"  as  if  he  really  believed  that  none  but  big-headed 
people  can  think.  "  Whether  this  be  Ruskin's  adopted  creed 
or  not,"  says  an  old  observer,  "  one  cannot  be  blind  to  the 
fact,  that  small,  compact,  '.harmonious  heads  sometimes 
grace  the  shoulders  of  some  of  the  calmest,  clearest,  happiest, 
most  far-sighted,  and  useful  thinkers  among  us.  Nor  can  I 
forget  that  one,  whose  venerable  form  was  familiar  to  me  in 
early  life,  distinguished  himself  by  habits  of  profound  thought, 
remarkably  small-headed  as  he  really  was.  This  was  Samuel 
Drew,  "  the  self-taught  Cornishman,"  whose  history  and 
character  his  eldest  son,  in  a  pleasant  style,  has  given  to  the 
world  as  "A  Life  Lesson."  My  first  sight  of  Mr.  Drew  left 
an  impression  which  retains  its  freshness  to  this  day.  No  one 
whose  eye  was  in  any  way  used  to  observe  manifestations  of 
mind  could  see  him  and  forget  him.  I  had  gone  to  the 
morning  service  in  the  Falmouth  Methodist  Chapel  one 
Sunday,  and  was  seated  in  a  front  pew  of  the  side  gallery 


2)06  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

when  my  attention  was  caught  by  a  tall  slender  figure 
moving  up  the  aisle  below,  somewhat  quickly,  but  with  an 
action  very  expressive  of  strong  decision.  There  was  a  loose- 
ness in  the  style  of  his  hair  and  a  lankness  about  his  dress 
which,  at  first  sight,  gave  his  person  an  air  of  carelessness ; 
but  a  full  glance  at  his  face  was  enough  to  prove  that  the 
seeming  carelessness  really  betokened  a  habit  of  frequent  re- 
tirement into  the  more  distant  regions  of  thought ;  while  it 
indicated  the  tendency  of  his  unselfish  nature  to  neglect 
itself  in  its  though tfulness  and  care  about  others.  The  lines 
of  thought  in  his  face  were  remarkable  for  their  depth  and 
significance ;  but  there  seemed  to  be  beneath  them  a  calm 
and  cheerful  expression  of  ever  living  kindness,  tender 
sympathy,  and  true  good  nature  ;  although  it  was  very  evident 
that  his  smile  might,  under  some  circumstances,  become 
sufficiently  sarcastic  to  inflict  hidden  torture  on  those  whose 
folly  or  vice  provoked  him  to  give  satirical  sharpness  to  his 
arguments.  His  eye,  however,  would  strike  one,  as  revealing 
most  of  his  inner  man.  It  was  dark,  but  never  fierce.  When 
in  repose,  it  was  beautifully  expressive  of  inward  quietness 
and  ease ;  and  yet  no  one  could  meet  its  gaze  without  feeling 
as  if  it  looked  into  the  secret  places  of  his  soul.  I  distinctly 
remember  my  uncomfortable  feeling,  on  the  preacher's 
account,  for  my  own  father,  supposing  that,  like  myself,  he  felt 
an  instinctive  inclination  to  shrink  from  the  searching  power 
of  its  peculiar  light ;  and  yet,  who  could  fear  it  when  he  had 
once  seen  it  kindle  at  the  voice  of  truth,  and  brighten  with 
devotional  thought  and  feeling?  iVh  !  to  many,  that  eye  has 
long  been  dim,  but  not  to  me.  The  soul  that  spoke  through 
it  when  I  first  met  its  glance  seems  to  speak  to  me  still ;  and 
often  have  I  felt  as  if  I  had  caught  its  meaning  again  while 
I  have  been  enjoying  a  review  of  his  history. 

How  frequently  have  I  wandered  and  mused  over  the 
scenes  of  Samuel  Drew's  birth  and  training  and  early  mental 
efforts !  He  was  born  in  a  lone  cottage  about  a  mile  from 
the  town  of  St.  Austell,  in  Cornwall — dear  old  St.  Austell! 
Who  that  has  seen  thee  throned  on  thy  verdant  hill-side,  can 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  307 

forget  thy  quiet  sway  over  the  laughing  valley  ?  Drew's 
birth-place,  I  say,  was  a  lone  cottage — it  was  not  a  silent  one, 
though,  for  its  one  ground-floor  room  and  two  sleeping  nests 
were  always  regaled  with  the  click  and  thump  of  what  is 
known  in  that  neighbourhood  as  a  "  stampses,"  a  rude  mill 
for  pounding  tin  ore.  Our  metaphysician's  father  was  a 
"tin-streamer."  And  by-and-by  the  son  Samuel  began  his 
career  at  the  ""stampses,"  as  a  "  buddle-boy."  Three  half- 
pence a  day  were  his  wages  at  first ;  and  he  thought  himself 
of  great  importance  when  able  to  earn  a  shilling  a  week. 
Alas,  for  the  lad !  he  soon  lost  the  pious  Methodist  mother  to 
whom  he  owed  his  earliest  moral  and  religious  lessons  ;  and 
then  his  fearless  character  entered  on  its  remarkable  course  of 
discipline.  It  is  an  interesting  fact  in  his  mental  history, 
that  the  death  of  his  mother  touched  to  the  quick  his  then 
rude  and  reckless  nature  ;  and  so  deeply  moved  his  heart  as 
in  some  way  to  make  his  intellect  spring,  and  give  promise 
of  the  wonderful  unfoldings  of  its  later  life.  The  feeling 
never  entirely  lost  its  quickening  power  over  his  mind. 
11  When  we  were  following  my  mother  to  the  grave,"  said  he, 
years  afterwards,  "  I  well  recollect  a  woman  observing,  as  we 
passed,  *  Poor  little  things,  they  little  know  the  loss  they  have 
sustained  !  "'  That  touch  upon  his  heart  was  mysteriously 
associated  with  the  first  literary  shaping  of  his  thought.  His 
earliest  attempts  at  composition  took  the  metrical  form  3  and 
under  the  promptings  of  a  heart  still  melting  at  the  loss  of  a 
mother,  he  wrote  : — 

These  eyes  have  seen  a  tender  mother  torn 
From  three  small  babes  she  left  behind  to  mourn. 
One  infant  son  retired  from  life  before ; 
Next  followed  she  whose  loss  I  now  deplore. 
This  throbbing  breast  has  heaved  the  heartfelt  sigh, 
And  breathed  afflictions  where  her  ashes  lie. 
Relentless  death  !  to  rob  my  younger  years 
Of  soft  indulgence  and  a  mother's  cares  ; 
Just  brought  to  life,  then  left  without  a  guide, 
To  wade  through  time,  and  grapple  with  the  tide  ! 

In  the  midst  of  his  literary  success  in  after  life,  he  said  to 
a  literary  gentleman,  who  had  taken  great  interest  in  him,  and 


308  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 

wished  to  know  something  of  his  early  history :  "  On  visiting 
my  mother's  grave,  with  one  of  my  children,  I  wrote  the 
following.  The  first  couplet  is  supposed  to  be  spoken  by 
the  child. 

"  '  Why  looks  my  father  on  that  lettered  stone, 
And  seems  to  sigh  with  sorrows  not  his  own  ?  ' 
'  That  stone,  my  dear,  conceals  from  human  eyes 
The  peaceful  mansion  where  my  mother  lies. 
Beneath  the  stone  (my  infant,  do  not  weep !) 
The  shrivelled  muscles  of  my  mother  sleep  ; 
And  soon,  my  babe,  the  awful  hour  must  be 
When  thy  sad  soul  will  heave  a  sigh  for  me, 
And  say,  with  grief,  amidst  thy  sister's  cries — 
"Beneath  this  stone  our  lifeless  parent  lies." 
Shouldst  thou,  my  dear,  survive  thy  father's  doom, 
And  wander  pensive  near  his  silent  tomb, 
Think  thy  survivors  will  perform  for  thee 
What  /  do  ?iow,  and  thou  wilt  then,  for  me.'  " 

"  Stone,  in  these  lines,"  continued  Mr.  Drew,  "  is  a  mere 
poetical  figure.  My  mother's  grave  has  no  such  ornament. 
My  father's  circumstances  would  not  allow  it,  if  he  had  been 
inclined  to  erect  one.  I  am  unacquainted  with  the  rules  of 
art,  and  the  orderly  methods  of  composition.  I  wrote  these 
lines  from  the  impulse  of  my  own  feelings,  and  the  dictates 
of  nature."  As  such,  who  that  knew  him,  in  the  full 
development  of  this  genius,  and  philosophic  and  literary 
power,  does  not  view  them  with  interest,  as  marking  the 
budding  time  of  his  distinguished  mental  powers  ?  They 
serve  to  show  that  his  soul  had  original  tunefulness,  as  well 
as  the  logical  and  metaphysical  faculties  which  self-culture 
afterwards  brought  up  to  such  noble  proportions. 

In  his  eleventh  year,  the  young  genius  appears  as  an 
apprentice  to  a  parishioner  of  St.  Blazey — half  cobler,  half 
farmer.  The  history  of  his  mental  struggles,  bodily  hard- 
ships, queer  adventures,  hazards,  deliverances,  and  achieve- 
ments, now  forms  a  curious  chapter,  verily  a  "  Life  Lesson." 
"  Long-legged  Sam,"  as  his  companions  termed  him, 
promised  then  to  be  anything  rather  than  the  deep,  logical 
thinker,  the  literary  man,  and  the  preacher. 

"How   often/'    says    the   old    observer   again,    "have   I 


TWO     TOETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  309 

followed  him  in  thought  through  his  early  perils  on  the  road, 
perils  on  the  cliffs,  perils  on  the  sea,  life  among  smugglers, 
poaching  expeditions,  day-dreams,  night  goblins,  truant 
nights,  hunger-bitten  times,  miscellaneous  readings,  first 
exercises  in  native  logic,  and  prize  cudgel-rights  :  all  these 
rise  before  me  in  turn,  and  take  their  place  in  the  moving 
life-picture  of  the  lad  whose  mind,  as  his  amiable  sister  said, 
"always  seemed  above  control."  Then  comes  his  first  inter- 
view with  Adam  Clarke,  the  young  Methodist  preacher, 
whose  ministry  at  once  surprised  him,  and  fixed  his  attention, 
and  then  set  him,  as  he  says,  "  a  thinking  and  reasoning." 
His  conversion  follows,  under  very  touching  circumstances. 
He  was  brought  to  religious  decision  as  the  result  of  his 
last  interview  with  a  dying  brother,  whose  death-bed  was  a 
scene  of  holy  triumph.  From  the  moment  of  his  conversion 
his  mental  faculties,  awakened  into  life  before,  sprang  rapidly 
into  higher  proportions,  took  a  decided  course,  and  happily 
unfolded  their  native  power.  Their  first  modes  of  expression 
showed  poetic  tendency  and  taste.  A  copy  of  his  earliest 
composition  under  Christian  influences  gives  indication  of 
defective  culture,  as  might  be  supposed ;  but  there  is  enough  of 
poetry  in  it  to  establish  a  claim  to  genius.  And  it  is  valuable 
as  a  relic,  illustrative  of  the  struggles  which  a  true  genius 
had  with  difficulties  resulting  from  a  lack  of  early  instruction. 
The  choice  of  his  theme,  "  Christmas,"  marks  the  now  re- 
ligious turn  of  the  young  man's  character  ;  and  the  spirit  of 
the  lines  shows  the  depth  and  warmth  of  his  devotion  : — 

Farewell,  ye  scenes  where  desolation  reigns, 

Pride  domineers,  and  wraps  the  world  in  chains  ! 

Ye  rayless  shades  of  intellectual  night, 

Empires  in  blood  that  pall  the  human  sight ; 

Ye  scenes,  in  which  life's  varied  forms  appear, 

"Where  heathen  gods  their  magic  standards  rear, 

And  folly,  leagued  with  vice,  dance  round  the  passing  year  ; 

Ye  lamps,  that  life's  nocturnal  portrait  drew — 

Heroes  and  arms — I  bid  you  all  adieu  ! 

A  nobler  form,  descending  from  the  skies, 

Claims  my  attention,  and  detains  my  eyes, 

Directs  the  mind  in  its  uncertain  flight, 

And  breaks  upon  me  in  a  flood  of  light. 


3IO  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Through  night's  dim  shades  a  heavenly  form  descends  ; 

Grace  lights  his  paths,  and  peace  his  steps  attends. 

Where  careful  shepherds  watched  their  fleecy  care, 

In  all  the  rigours  of  December's  air, 

A  herald  voice  proclaimed  an  angel  near, 

And  with  new  glories  raised  th'  expiring  year. 

"When  thus  the  form  in  heavenly  strains  began — 

u  Hail !  favoured  earth  ! — hail !  highly-favoured  man  ! 

I  come,  designed  by  that  Almighty  Lord, 

Who  formed  yon  worlds  with  His  prolific  word, 

When  formless  chaos  and  the  realms  of  night 

Produced  creation  to  my  ravished  sight — 

I  come,  designed  by  that  Almighty  King  : 

Rejoice,  O  earth  !  ye  barren  mountains,  sing  ! 

Through  thy  domains  glad  tidings  shall  abound  ; 

Thy  sons  enslaved  shall  hear  the  joyful  sound ; 

Through  frozen  climes,  where  seas  forget  to  roll, 

Truth  shall  prevail,  and  spread  from  pole  to  pole ; 

Where  burning  zones  receive  the  solar  rays, 

Joy,  breaking  forth,  the  illumin'd  word  shall  seize  ; 

No  tribes  shall  mourn  a  partial  favour  given, 

No  soul  exempt,  reproach  neglectful  Heaven. 

For  on  this  day — on  this  auspicious  morn, 

In  Bethlehem  town  the  incarnate  Godhead 's  born  ; 

The  promised  seed  prophetic  seers  foretold — 

Foresaw — predicted — did  by  faith  behold — 

The  mighty  God  !  mankind's  eternal  Friend ! 

Great  Prince  of  Peace  !  whose  kingdom  knows  no  end 

On  hay  reclined,  in  swathes  He  now  appears  \ 

A  simple  manger  now  the  Godhead  bears !  " 

He  paused — when,  lo  !  a  multitude  was  heard, 

Whose  heavenly  songs  the  astonish'd  shepherds  scared  — 

"  Glory  to  God  in  highest  strains  be  raised ; 

Feel  it,  O  earth — and  be  thy  Maker  praised ; 

O'er  earth's  long  shorei  peace  shall  extend  her  sway  ; 

Her  sons  shall  hear  hostilities  decay ; 

Good  will  to  man  shall  smile  on  every  plain, 

And  peace  and  plenty  greet  the  world  again." 

Here  ceased  their  song;  then,  from  the  dusky  shade, 

Through  realms  of  light,  their  radiant  wings  displayed. 

Say  then,  my  muse,  what  theme  will  charm  the  ear, 

Warm  the  cold  soul,  and  draw  the  pious  tear? 

Say  how  the  Godhead,  wrapped  in  human  clay, 

Threw  by  the  glories  of  unclouded  day, 

The  Gospel  standard  through  the  skies  unfurled, 

And  held  out  mercy  to  a  ruined  world  ? 

Hail  1  blessed  time !  auspicious  era,  hail ! 

Hail !  conquering  love,  and  truth  that  must  prevail ! 

O'er  earth's  wide  face  unveil  the  sacred  road 

That  leads  from  darkness  to  the  throne  of  God ! 

The  swarthy  sons  of  Afric's  torrid  soil 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  31[ 

And  Lybia's  wastes  shall  feel  thy  genial  smile ; 

India  shall  rise,  forgetful  of  her  stores, 

To  meet  salvation  on  her  native  shores. 

No  more  shall  warriors  spread  their  dire  alarms, 

Form  new  allies,  and  call  the  world  to  arms ; 

War's  fatal  trumpet  sound  her  blast  no  more ; 

No  reeking  slaughter  bathe  her  steps  in  gore. 

Earth's  fertile  vales  the  quickening  voice  shall  hear, 

Rise  into  plains,  and  mountains  disappear  ; 

Rough  places  smoothed  shall  richest  pasture  yield, 

And  crooked  paths  produce  a  fertile  field  ; 

Thy  savage  tribes  shall  be  at  length  subdued, 

And,  conquered,  rise,  in  righteousness  renewed. 

Those  swarms  that  pressed  where  splendid  greatness  shone 

Shall  quit  her  interest  to  promote  their  own  ; 

Despotic  power — that  human  scourge — shall  cease, 

And  captive  slaves  from  servile  chains  release ; 

Types  shall  no  more  to  anti-types  extend, 

Rites  disappear,  and  priestly  orders  end. 

Refulgent  scenes  shall  these  dark  days  succeed, 

And  Gospel  truths  in  radiant  circles  spread  ; 

Men's  present  aims  with  future  interest  blend  ; 

To  distant  worlds  the  rising  soul  shall  tend  ; 

Messiah's  power  shall  renovate  the  whole, 

And  truth,  combined  with  love,  pervade  the  human  soul ! 

The  young  unlettered  genius  who  could  write  such  lines 
as  these  would  be  sufficiently  conscious  of  his  power,  and 
have  a  feeling  of  success  strong  enough  to  dispose  him  to 
further  efforts.  His  next  achievement  was  the  production  of 
twelve  hundred  lines  of  "  Reflections  on  St.  Austell  Church- 
yard," a  somewhat  sombre  theme,  and  worked  out  with  not 
very  bright  results,  as  far  as  accurate  English  and  correct 
verse  are  concerned,  but  wearing  the  impress  of  a  mind 
capable  of  profound  thought,  and  of  emulating  the  first 
masters  of  tuneful  measure.  Some  parts  of  it  might  remind 
the  reader  of  Pope ;  and  Pope  was  rather  a  favourite  with  the 
self-taught  student.  In  his  later  life,  he  one  day  quoted  Pope 
in  conversation. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  be  so  bitter  an  enemy  to  Pope  as 
some  of  our  zealous  ministers  are,"  said  one. 

"  I  think,  sir,"  was  his  reply,  "it  has  become  the  pulpit 
fashion  to  decry  Pope,  but  it  is  easier  to  reprobate  than  dis- 
prove his  positions.  When  this  is  done,  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  censure  them." 


312  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

One  who  was  acquainted  with  Mr.  Drew,  says  :  "  A  few 
years  ago  I  was  one  of  a  select  party  that  went  up  the 
Thames  in  a  small  steamer  to  Twickenham.  When  we  came 
opposite  to  Pope's  villa,  Mr.  Drew,  who  was  with  us,  directed 
our  attention  to  it,  and  making  some  observation  which  I  now 
forget,  took  off  his  hat,  '  in  honour,'  as  he  said, ' of  departed 
greatness.'  " 

A  large  part  of  his  poetical  "Reflections"  is  argumentative, 
not  unlike  Pope's  "Essay  on  Man,"  which,  perhaps,  in  his 
fondness  for  Pope,  he  nad  in  his  mind  as  a  model.  The 
interest  deepens  around  this  part  of  the  poem  when  it  affords 
us  what  seems  to  be  a  kind  of  poetic  embryo  of  his  great 
work  on  "The  Immateriality  and  Immortality  of  the  Human 
Soul."  To  read  his  preface  to  that  immortal  book,  is  to  have 
a  charm  thrown  about  everything  associated  with  his  first 
conceptions  of  the  argument.  There  is  a  kind  of  poetry 
breathing  through  the  sentences.  "Advancing  in  years,"  he 
says,  "the  author's  probationary  period  is  drawing  to  a  close  ; 
and  the  crisis  cannot  be  remote  that  will  dismiss  his  spirit 
from  its  earthly  abode  to  the  regions  of  immortality.  Asso- 
ciating then  with  the  disembodied,  detached  from  all  material 
organisation,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  will  see  much 
reason  to  alter  many  of  his  views  respecting  the  momentous 
subject  on  which  he  has  written.  He,  however,  concludes 
this  preface  under  a  full  conviction  that,  although  unable  to 
communicate  any  corrections  of  what  he  may  then  discover 
to  be  erroneous  in  his  essay,  he  shall  have  new  evidence, 
bursting  upon  him  like  a  tide  of  glory,  to  establish  beyond 
the  possibility  of  a  doubt  'The  Immateriality  and  Immortality 
of  the  Human  Soul.'  " 

Yes,  all  things  on  that  subject  are  clear  to  him  now.  All 
his  arguments  are  seen  in  true  light ;  and  answers  have  been 
given  to  the  questions  which,  as  they  first  arose,  found  an 
utterance  in  measured  lines  : — 

What  is  the  soul  ?  and  where  does  it  reside  ? 
What  gives  it  life — or  makes  that  life  subside  ? 
Are  souls  extinct  when  bodies  first  expire  ? 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  . >  i  .3 

Can  Death's  cold  hand  extinguish  heavenly  fire  ? 
First,  what  is  life? — define  the  human  soul — 
That  vital  spark  that  animates  the  whole. 


To  form  the  soul  do  subtle  parts  conspire? 
Does  action  live  through  every  part  entire? 
Consists  the  soul  of  elemental  flame  ? 
Can  high-wrought  matter  its  existence  claim  ? 

Now,  if  the  soul  be  matter  thus  refin'd, 

If  it  has  parts  connected  or  disjoin'd, 

Then  follows — what  these  propositions  teach — 

That  some  corporeal  instrument  may  reach, 

And  reaching  there,  its  ruin  may  portend, 

Its  death  accomplish,  and  its  being  end. 

This  is  no  soul — for  matter  cannot  think  ; 
And  thought  destroy'd  would  make  the  soul  extinct; 
Since  what  has  parts  must  be  dissolved  again, 
And  in  its  pristine  elements  remain. 

The  poet  seems  to  have  intended  the  publication  of  his 
poem,  as  the  manuscript  has  a  preface  attached.  And  what- 
ever poetry  or  metaphysics  he  had,  the  preface  shows  that 
he  had  strong  common  sense.  "When  I  consider  myself," 
he  says,  "  my  subject,  my  circumstances,  my  situation,  and 
my  neighbours,  I  cannot  think  this  apology  unnecessary. 
When  this  appears  in  a  public  manner,  I  expect  some  will 
despise — some  ridicule — some  pity — and  some,  perhaps, 
applaud  me  for  my  undertaking.  To  please  every  one  is 
impossible.  One  objection  will  be  (I  expect)  continually 
raised — which  is — you  had  letter  mind  your  work.  It  may 
not  be  unnecessary,  in  reply,  to  observe — it  had  but  little 
interference  with  my  labour  ;  nothing  to  its  detriment;  but 
has  been  chiefly  the  produce  of  those  evening  and  leisure 
hours  which  too  many  of  my  age  dedicate  to  profligacy, 
wicked  company,  and  vice." 

On  second  thought,  Mr.  Drew  shut  up  his  poem,  and 
eventually  put  his  thoughts  in  such  a  prose  form  as  secured 
for  him  a  place  in  the  history  of  thoughtful  literature  that  he 
will  never  lose.  It  may  be  that,  in  withdrawing  his  poetic 
pages,  he  was  influenced  by  reasons  such  as  he,  long  after- 
wards, expressed  in  friendly  talk. 


314  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  Poetry,"  he  remarked,."  is  about  the  worst  article  that  can 
be  carried  into  the  market  of  literature.  Merit  is  no  criterion 
by  which  circulation  may  be  calculated.  A  happy  con- 
currence of  wind  and  tide  may  sometimes  accomplish,  in  a 
lucky  moment,  what  no  talents  or  efforts  can  effect.  This 
will  throw  a  halo  round  an  author's  name,  and  then  all  his 
productions  will  sell.  Even  when  uttering  the  most  consum- 
mate nonsense,  he  will  be  thought  to  '  snatch  a  grace 
beyond  the  reach  of  art/  Nine-tenths  of  the  booksellers  in 
London  know  that  nine-tenths  of  mankind  are  fools,  and 
must  be  treated  accordingly." 

It  is  a  joy  to  watch  Samuel  Drew  in  happy  companion- 
ship with  the  few  authors  who  shared  in  the  work  of  train- 
ing and  nurturing  the  future  master  of  thought.  Bunyan's 
"Pilgrim"  took  a  leading  part,  and  Franklin's  "Way  to 
Wealth;  "  and  above  all,  the  knotty  pages  of  John  Locke. 
The  story  of  his  upward  tug  for  knowledge,  and  his  steady 
perseverance  under  accumulative  difficulties,  is  most  instruc- 
tive. One  is  kept  under  a  stimulating  charm  while  watching 
the  first  manifestation  of  his  power  in  the  lists  against  Tom 
Paine;  or  witnessing  the  generous  patronage  of  the  venerable 
antiquary  John  Whitaker  j  or  marking  the  resistless  plunges 
of  the  logical  shoemaker's  awl  into  the  vulnerable  sides 
of  Parson  Polwhele,  the  anti-Methodist  anecdote-maker  ;  or 
following  his  thoughts  in  his  first  great  essay  on  "  The  Human 
Soul;"  or  in  his  adventurous  passage  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  "  Resurrection  ; "  or  in  his  efforts  towards  a  prize  essay 
on  "The  Being  and  Attributes  of  the  Deity;"  or  in  his 
literary  connection  with  Dr.  Coke,  his  contributions  to  the 
history  of  his  native  county;  or  his  long  and  honourable 
relation  to  the  Caxton  Press  as  editor  of  the  "  Imperial 
Magazine."  He  was  a  preacher,  too;  not  popular,  nor  fond 
of  popular  preachers,  it  would  seem. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that  sermon?"  somebody  asked 
after  listening  to  a  very  popular  man. 

"  I  think,  sir,  that,  deprived  of  their  long  '  O — V  and  great 
's,'  many  such  discourses  could  be  contained  in  a  nut-shell." 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  315 

It  required  brains  much  larger  than  the  contents  of  a  nut- 
shell to  take  in  a  sermon  of  his.  His  sermons  were  enjoy- 
able to  calm  thinkers  only.  As  a  Methodist,  he  was  more 
remarkable  for  his  keen  philosophical  insight  into  the  tenden- 
cies of  Methodist  organisation  than  for  his  contributions  to  its 
poetical  literature.  His  poetic  faculty  was  mostly  indulged 
within  the  circle  of  his  own  household.  There,  reproof  was 
sometimes  given  in  playful  rhyme,  as  when  he  wrote  on  a  piece 
of  waste  paper,  and  left  the  lines  for  the  servants  to  read — 

Amidst  the  wonders  Islington  can  boast, 
That  which  must  puzzle  and  surprise  us  most, 
And  give  to  bold  credulity  a  shock, 
Is  Drew  at  breakfast  before  eight  o'clock  ! 

But  the  more  delicate  and  tender  employment  of  his  muse 

would  be  in  expressing  his  warm  paternal  affections.     So  his 

gentle  heart  makes  its  meaning  felt,  with  amiable  inattention 

to  the  claims  of  critical  taste,  in  one  of  his  usual  addresses  to 

his  youngest  daughter  on  her  birthday. 

Accept,  dear  Mary,  on  thy  natal  day, 

This  kind  expression  of  a  father's  love  ; 
Warm  from  his  heart  it  flows  without  decay, 

To  thee  in  deeds — in  prayer  to  God  above. 

Thy  childhood  past,  but  not  matured  in  years, 

Thy  parents  view  thee  in  a  path  of  strife, 
And  watch  those  steps  with  anxious  hopes  and  fears 

That  soon  will  stamp  thy  destiny  for  life. 

The  dangerous  ocean  which  thy  barque  must  sail 
Has  rocks  and  shoals  unseen,  or  found  too  late; 

And  those  who  venture  under  passion's  gale 
Will  suffer  shipwreck  on  the  shores  of  fate. 

Taught  from  thy  youth  those  tempting  scenes  to  shun, 

Where  serpents  lurk  beneath  delusive  flowers, 
Where  folly's  minions  dance,  and  are  undone, 

By  fashion  lead  to  dissipation's  bowers. 
Revere  the  precepts  which  instruction  gives ; 

Experience,  reason,  urge  thee  to  be  wise. 
A  father's  voice  may  warn  while  yet  he  lives  ; 

O  may  Heaven's  counsel  lead  thee  when  he  dies  ! 

A  Power  unseen  o'er  thy  steps  presides, 

To  guard  thy  feet  in  virtue's  sacred  road  ; 
The  Cross  atones — the  Saviour's  spirit  guides 

From  vice  and  sorrow  to  the  throne  of  God. 


3l6  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

An  aged  widow  should  thy  mother  prove, 

Who  nursed  and  cherished  thee  with  tender  care, 
Repay  that  kindness  with  a  daughter's  love, 

And  in  thy  comforts  let  her  claim  a  share. 
Should  he  who  writes  prove  destitute,  forlorn, 

Wrinkled  and  gray,  his  lingering  hours  beguile ; 
Age  and  decrepitude,  oh,  do  not  scorn, 

But  cheer  his  evening  with  a  filial  smile. 
Then,  when  thy  parents,  summoned  to  the  skies, 

No  more  admonish,  or  thy  actions  see, 
A  generation  yet  unborn  may  rise, 

To  pay  those  duties  rendered  now  by  thee. 

Some  of  these  closing  lines  are  touching,  especially  when 
read  with  the  knowledge  of  his  subsequent  experience  of  being 
left  "  forlorn,"  bereft  of  his  wife.  But  he  realised  the  full 
answer  to  his  prayer  for  the  final  comfort  of  a  "  filial  smile." 

Though  most  of  his  writings  were  of  the  severe  and  more 
profound  order,  there  was  a  kind  of  tender  poetry  in  his  home 
life  j  and  his  eldest  son  has  given  us  a  delicately  touched 
picture  of  his  "  calm  decay,"  and  the  solemn  beauties  of  "the 
closing  scene  j  "  while  the  inhabitants  of  his  native  town  have 
given  expression  to  their  affection  for  him,  and  have  recorded 
their  estimate  of  his  character  on  a  tablet,  which  they  placed 
in  the  church  of  his  native  parish,  St.  Austell,  Cornwall. 

$0  tl]t  fgkmarg  ai 
SAMUEL     DREW, 

A  NATIVE  OF  THIS  PARISH, 

WHOSE  TALENTS  AS  A  METAPHYSICAL   WRITER, 

UNAIDED     BY     EDUCATION, 

RAISED     HIM      FROM      OBSCURITY 

INTO     HONOURABLE     NOTICE, 

AND     WHOSE     VIRTUES     AS    A     CHRISTIAN 

WON    THE    ESTEEM    AND    AFFECTION 

OF  ALL  WHO    KNEW  HIM. 

HE  WAS  BORN   MARCH  3RD,    I  /6^, 

LIVED      IN    ST.    AUSTELL     UNTIL     JANUARY,      1819, 

AND,  AFTER  AN  ABSENCE  OF  FOURTEEN  YEARS, 

DURING     WHICH     HE     CONDUCTED     A      LITERARY      JOURNAL, 

HE    RETURNED  TO    END   HIS    DAYS    IN    HIS    NATIVE    COUNTY, 

AS    HE    HAD    LONG    DESIRED, 

AND    DIED    AT    HELSTON,   MARCH    2QTH,     1833. 

To  record  their  sense  of  his  literary  merit  and  moral  worth,  his  fellow-countrymen 

and  parishioners  have  erected  this  tablet. 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  ^Ij 

Human  character  is  an  interesting  study  as  to  the 
numberless  varieties  in  its  degrees  of  power  j  but  the  interest 
greatly  deepens  when  all  the  differences  in  the  balance  of 
personal  qualities  are  considered.  In  one  case,  as  writh 
Samuel  Drew,  the  metaphysical  power,  the  logical  force,  and 
the  technical  severity,  are  of  such;  weight  as  to  leave  but 
little  to  the  account  of  poetical  genius,  and  less  to  musical 
taste.  In  another  instance,  of  which  the  Rev.  David 
McNicoll  was  an  example,  the  metaphysical  faculty,  though 
of  equal  calibre,  appears  to  be  less,  because  of  its  combina- 
tion with  richer  fancy,  nobler  imagination,  and  a  finer 
musical  sense.  But  while  it  is  interesting  to  observe  the 
nice  differences  in  the  balance  of  character,  it  is  curious  to 
see  how,  in  the  course  of  our  observation,  at  an  unforeseen 
and  unaccountable  turn,  long  scattered,  fragmentary  recol- 
lections of  character  are  brought  together,  so  as  to  answer  to 
each  other,  and  to  combine  in  giving  a  kind  of  re-embodi- 
ment and  new  life  to  almost  forgotten  excellencies.  An 
illustration  of  this  is  associated  with  the  memory  of  David 
McNicoll.  Two  or  three  years  ago,  an  old  traveller  and  his 
wife  found  their  way  down  to  a  romantic  little  harbour  on 
the  English  Coast,  looking  out  between  its  bold,  sheltering 
headlands,  upon  the  mighty  Atlantic.  They  were  kindly 
received  in  a  Methodist  home,  where,  on  entering  the  dining- 
room,  they  were  simultaneously  drawrn  towards  a  painting  on 
the  wall,  and  both  cried,  as  with  one  voice — 

"  Why,  there  is  David  McNicoll !  " 

"  It  looks  like  Jackson's  painting,"  said  the  traveller.! 

"No,"  the  master  of  the  house  replied ;  "  it  is  a  copy — 
one  of  my  attempts,  by  way  of  exercise." 

"Well,  it  is  good,  isn"t  it  ? ''  said  the  traveller  to  his  wife. 
**  He  looks  there  just  as  I  remember  him  in  my  youth.  I 
saw  him  in  the  pulpit ;  he  was  praying,  and  lounging  on  the 
cushion  and  Bible,  some  would  say,  lazily  ;  but  it  wras  rather, 
as  it  seems  to  me  now,  illustrative  of  his  peculiar  entireness 
of  reliance  on  the  providence  of  God,  to  wrhom  he  was 
speaking.      He  seemed  to  be  '  rolling  himself  on  the  Lord,' 


3t8  the  poets  of  Methodism. 


as  an  old  Scotch  divine  would  say  :  and  Mr.  McNicoll  was  a 

Scotchman.     I  shall  never  forget  that  prayer  -,  or  rather  shall 

never  lose  the  impression  then  left  on  my  mind.      1  was  but 

a  boy ;  but  I  had  a  feeling  of  awe,  while  I  listened  to  him. 

It  appeared  to  me  as  if  his  soul  were  swimming  out  into  some 

great  depth  j  as  if  he  were  at  home  among  the  great  waters, 

and  had  delight  in  rinding  himself  out  of  sight  of  land.  That 

old  familiar  verse  has  often  come  to  me  when  his  figure  and 

action  in  the  pulpit  have  been  imaged  to  my  mind  : — 

"  There  shall  I  bathe  my  weary  soul 
In  seas  of  heavenly  rest, 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  roll 
Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

"It  is  strange  that  years  afterwards,  when  he  had  really  passed 
out  into  the  great  expanse  of  another  life,  I  met  with  his 
'  Poetic  Remains,'  and  there  was  the  fragment  of  a  poem,  on 
'The  Pleasures  of  Devotion,'  the  opening  passages  of  which 
renewed  my  early  impressions  of  that  prayer,  and  gave 
greater  clearness  and  power  to  my  conviction  that  he  must 
have  found  pleasure  in  passing  from  prayer  into  communion 
with  that  God  who  fills  immensity,  and  brightens  all  worlds 
with  the  light  of  redeeming  love.  Let  me  try  to  give  the 
lines  : — 

"  Devotion!  holiest  offspring  of  the  skies, 

Friend  of  the  contrite,  of  the  good,  and  wise  1 

Teach  me  a  song  unknown  to  fancy's  dream, 

Thyself  my  inspiration  and  my  theme. 

Come,  prophets,  martyrs,  and  ye  banded  few, 

Sent  by  your  Lord,  rise  to  my  raptured  view ; 

Lend  your  pure  fires,  and  pour  the  unclouded  ray, 

To  light  the  muse  on  her  celestial  way. 

But,  chiefly,  Spirit  of  the  Eternal  One, 

Gift  of  the  Father's  love,  sent  by  the  Son, 

The  Guide,  the  Comforter,  the  pleading  Friend, 

By  whom,  with  groans,  our  inwrought  prayers  ascend — 

O  might  Thy  hallow'd  energy  Divine 

Feed  every  spring  of  thought,  trace  every  line  ; 

Stamp  the  just  precepts  of  the  suppliant  art, 

And  bid  the  song  transmit  them  to  the  heart. 

Primeval  Power !  when  first  the  sons  of  light, 
Bright  morning  stars,  burn'd  on  the  brow  of  night, 
By  Thee  inspired,  their  symphony  they  sung, 
And  God's  high  Throne  with  adorations  rang. 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  319 

Full  vision'd  with  intelligence,  they  gazed 

Each  on  the  glittering  host,  rapt  and  amazed, 

To  know  the  Almighty  One,  whom  none  could  trace, 

To  hear  some  secrets  of  His  purposed  grace  ; 

To  view  the  Source  of  Being  in  their  own, 

God  in  His  image,  God  supreme,  alone  ; 

The  God  without  a  cause,  or  bound,  or  end, 

Whom  none  may  judge,  whom  none  can  comprehend  ; 

Essential  life,  around,  beneath,  above ; 

The  infinite  sublime  of  power  and  love ; 

"Wholly  in  every  place — diffused,  immense  ; 

Unseen,  untouch'd — yet  felt ;  serene,  intense  ; 

All  truth,  all  justice,  and  all  holiness. 

Unfading  centre  of  true  loveliness. 

Immutable,  unmoved ;  sole,  ceaseless  spring 

Of  force  that  moves  in  each  created  thing ; 

Veil'd  in  His  own  insufferable  light, 

That  shrouds  the  blazing  sun  with  tenfold  night ; 

Yet  manifest,  by  dazzling  proofs,  amid 

His  matchless  works,  that  never  can  be  hid  ; 

Whose  wisdom  runs  through  nature's  wondrous  frame, 

And  always  seeks  and  finds  some  glorious  aim ; 

All  whose  perfections  infinite  are  shown, 

And  sumra'd  in  one — the  grandeur  of  His  throne — 

Goodness — that  ceaseless  calls  them  into  play, 

And  lights  the  glory  of  their  boundless  way; 

Goodness,  still  flowering  into  love,  and  this 

Bursting  with  fruits  of  never-fading  bliss ; 

Goodness,  the  measure  of  the  deep-struck  plan, 

That  saved  the  world  before  the  world  began. 

Farewell  the  forum,  and  farewell  the  strife 
That  gives  to  senates  all  their  charm  and  life. 
Farewell  the  gay  parterre,  and  gorgeous  court, 
Where  beauty  beams,  and  princely  peers  resort. 
I  turn  me  to  this  lone,  ungarnish'd  cell, 
Where  God,  and  truth,  and  peace,  and  rapture  dwell : 
This  is  my  strong  fortress  in  temptation's  wars  ; 
My  school  where  truth  shines  from  beyond  the  stars. 
The  sainted  soul  here  banquets  with  her  Lord, 
From  all  her  guilt  to  all  His  love  restored." 

"  Your  impression  of  McNicoll  and  mine/'  said  the 
traveller's  wife,  "  must  have  been  received  about  the  same 
time,  during  that  visit  of  his  to  this  neighbourhood.  We  knew 
nothing  of  each  other  then,  nor  of  each  other's  impressions. 
Strange,  isn't  it,  that  we  should  come  together  here,  as  man  and 
wife,  to  have  our  impressions  renewed  and  compared  before  this 
portrait,  taken  by  one  who  never  saw  him  ?      You  were  im- 


320  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

pressed  with  his  prayer ;  I  was  struck  with  his  singing.     It 

was  in  my  father's  house,  where  music  was  our  life.     How 

he  charmed  us  !     There,  in  that  likeness,  is  that  same  canny 

sort  of  look  of  his  which  I  remember  so  well,  as  he  sang  a 

Covenanter's  song — 

*'  Our  solemn  league  and  covenant 
Is  al  a  braken  thrco. 

"  That  singing  almost  made  Covenanters  of  us  all." 
Recollections  of  this  "  sweet-singer,"  as  he  was  when  a 
boy,  have  been  happily  preserved.  One  of  that  primitive  race 
of  Methodist  evangelists,  who  brought  their  strong  natural 
endowments  into  the  field  immediately  after  Air.  Wesley's 
departure,  the  Rev.  John  Stephens,  says,  "  In  the  year  1800, 1 
was  appointed  to  Dundee.  I  had  not  been  long  there  before 
my  attention  was  fixed  on  "  Little  David,"  as  he  was  familiarly 
called  by  our  friends  in  his  native  town.  He  was  young, 
small,  short,  round-faced,  with  a  ruddy  complexion,  eyes 
beaming  with  benignity,  softened  by  the  shade  of  his  dark, 
shaggy  eyebrows,  and  a  forehead  indicating  more  than 
ordinary  intelligence.  His  voice  was  singularly  melodious, 
and  as  his  pious  father  was  the  leader  of  the  singing  in  our 
chapel,  assisted  by  several  members  of  his  family  and  other 
friends,  David  had  full  scope  for  the  exercise  of  his  musical 
talents  in  the  worship  and  praise  of  Almighty  God,  This,  I 
have  often  thought,  was  a  great  mercy ;  for  such  was  his 
passionate  fondness  for  singing,  in  addition  to  his  fine  voice, 
that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  influence  of  religion,  it  is  probable 
he  might  have  been  engaged,  in  after  life,  as  too  many 
similarly  gifted  persons  are,  in  strewing  flowers  and  diffusing 
fragrance  on  the  path  which  leads  multitudes  to  eternal  ruin. 
From  this  snare  he  was  saved  by  the  blessing  of  God  on  the 
instructions,  prayers,  and  example  of  his  worthy  parents, 
connected  with  the  ministration  of  the  Gospel  in  our 
chapel." 

"  Little  David  "  grew  up  under  these  home  and  church  in- 
fluences, until,  soon  after  his  sound  though  early  conversion, 
he  was  persuaded  to  exercise  his  gifts  as  an  exhorter.     Those 


TWO    POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  321 

who  heard  his  first  utterance  said,  "This  modest,  humble 
lad  has  preaching  in  him,  if  we  can  only  get  it  out."  It  was 
got  out ;  and  the  "  humble  lad,"  in  mature  life,  became  re- 
markable as  a  thinker,  as  a  writer,  both  in  prose  and  verse, 
and  as  a  profound  yet  attractive  preacher.  There  proved  to 
be  in  him  a  rare  association  of  fine  intellectual  faculties, 
moral  powers,  and  spiritual  gifts.  This  is  to  be  seen  in  the 
deep  and  subtle  metaphysics,  the  unbroken  closeness  of 
logic*  and  the  illustrative  skill  of  his  obstruse  "  Argument  for 
the  Truth  of  the  Bible  ;  "  the  elegance,  taste,  and  delicacy  of 
his  "Essay  on  the  Stage,"  the  discrimination  and  judgment 
of  his  essays  on  "Taste"  and  "Poetry,"  and  the  clear, 
copious,  elevating  thought,  brightly  winged  imagination, 
balanced  judgment,  rich  fulness  of  expression,  and  reverent 
and  lofty  tone  of  his  sermons.  The  finest  of  these  qualities 
show  themselves  in  beautiful  combination  in  some  of  the 
best  passages  in  his  poems.  As  a  poet,  he  finds  in  nature 
"  more  than  meets  the  eye,"  and  tells  us,  with  much 
beauty  : — 


I  love  the  dawnings  of  the  beautiful, 

The  budding  rose,  the  earliest  green  of  spring, 

The  sun  just  entering  heaven's  rich  vestibule, 

The  soonest  lark  when  first  she  mounts  her  wing, 

And  the  young  moon  at  eve.  whose  virgin  face, 

Side-long  reveal'd,  shines  with  a  modest  grace. 

Shall  these  give  pleasure  to  the  glowing  sense, 
But  to  the  soul  yield  nothing  more  refined? 

Nothing  of  purer  touch  to  recompense 

The  busy  wonderings  of  the  searching  mind  ? 

Yes ;  hues  and  forms  are  but  the  mystic  wand 

That  starts  the  visions  of  her  fairy-land  ! 

For  "  more  than  meets  the  view  "  lies  in  the  bloom  ; 

The  fruitage  of  a  distant  day  shines  there. 
Twice  charm'd  we  see  the  pent  flower  burst  its  tomb 

Twice,  as  when  from  the  harp,  swept  by  the  air, 
A  soft,  sweet  note  seems  sounding  from  on  high, 
That  with  a  deeper  note  chimes  harmony. 


. 


3-i  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Then  look,  my  soul,  not  on  the  narrow  field 
Of  this  low,  weedy  world  ;  lift  up  thine  eye; 

Pursue  the  ever-lengthening  vale  ;  and  yield 
Thy  homage  to  the  mountains ;  there  descry, 

At  every  new  ascent,  still  nobler  heights, 

Feasting  thy  hopes  with  infinite  delights. 

These  give  celestial  temper  to  the  soul, 

To  meanest  things  of  earth  a  sweet  sublime; 

Urge  us  to  rush  upon  th'  eternal  goal, 

Till  Death  himself  shall  die,  and  hoary  Time 

Take  youth's  bright  form,  his  night  turn  into  day, 

Dwell  in  new  worlds  and  cast  his  wings  away. 

Mr.  McNicoll  had  been  in  the  Methodist  ministry  for 
nearly  thirty-four  years,  when  he  was  to  be  seen,  of  an  even- 
ing, occasionally  walking  in  friendly  chat,  with  one  of  his 
own  order,  up  and  down  on  the  broad  path  by  the  side  of  the 
cemetery  in  Liverpool.  His  talk  was  mostly  on  the  shortness 
and  vanity  of  mortal  life,  and  its  close  relation  to  the  realities 
of  the  life  to  come.  He  spoke  as  a  man  on  the  verge  of 
another  world,  and  the  thoughts  expresssed  during  one  of 
those  conversations  seem  to  have  been  embodied  in  his  verses 
on  "Life." 

"  What  is  our  life  ?  "  ofttimes  we  ask, 

But  look  for  no  reply  ; 
Still  turning  to  some  busy  task, 

And  know  not,  care  not,  why. 

Thankless,  we  deem  our  life  but  spray 

Dash'd  on  a  barren  shore, 
That  glitters  in  the  sunny  ray, 

Then  falls,  and  is  no  more. 

Yet  time  is  true  eternity, 

Just  shaded  by  the  grave; 
The  first  bold  billow  of  a  sea 

That  knows  no  refluent  wave. 

'Tis  more — it  speaks  with  God-like  power 

Our  ceaseless  weal  or  woe  ; 
From  some  small  fount,  in  life's  brief  hour, 

These  deep  extremes  shall  flow. 

Source  of  all  blessedness  and  strength  ! 

O  help  our  weakness,  Lord  ! 
And  guide  us  through  life's  little  length, 

That  we  may  keep  Thy  word. 


TWO     POETICAL    METAPHYSICIANS.  $2% 

Then  on  the  sure  foundation  laid 

In  Zion  we  shall  build  ; 
And  soon  our  final  home,  array'd 

In  light,  shall  stand  reveal'd. 

But  those  who  shun  the  Rock,  and  think 

Smooth  sand  the  corner-stone, 
Whelm'd  in  the  tempest-crash  shall  sink 

Eternally  undone. 

"Our  friend,  McNicoll,  will -not  live  long,"  said  the  one 
who  had  walked  with  him,  on  returning  one  evening  from 
the  cemetery  path  to  his  home. 

"  Why  do  you  think  so  ?  "  it  was  inquired. 

"  Why  !  His  soul  is  mellowing  for  Heaven  j  God  is  pre- 
paring him  for  Himself." 

And  so  it  was.  Mr.  McNicoll's  family  appears  to  have 
been  gathered  around  him  by  the  arrangement  of  the  Great 
Father.  All  wrere  there.  The  evening  was  happy.  He 
smiled  on  the  full  group  around  the  table  ;  spoke  cheerfully 
to  them  ;  knelt  down,  and  pleaded  for  each,  and  commended 
all  to  God ;  gave  his  fatherly  blessing ;  and,  retiring  to  his 
room,  he  was,  in  a  few  minutes,  gone  into  the  immortal  life 
for  which  his  life  on  earth  had  been  a  preparation. 

His  companion  in  the  evening  chats  by  the  cemetery,  the 
venerable  Dr.  Dixon,  has  now  joined  him,  leaving  the  record 
of  the  impression  which  the  rich-toned  preacher  and  poetical 
metaphysician  had  left  on  his  soul — "  Of  all  the  men  I  ever 
saw,  Mr.  McNicoll  always  appeared  to  me  as  the  happiest.*' 


3^4  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


LATER-DAY     CLERICAL    HYMNISTS. 


He  gave  the  Shepherd  to  His  flock  ;  His  hand 
Convey'd  the  rod  of  power ;  the  minstrel  band 
"Waked  at  His  word  the  trumpet  or  the  lyre ; 
He  gave  the  herald's  voice,  the  poet's  fire  ; 

AW  flowed  from  Him,  His  wisdom  all  inspired. 
He  formed  the  instruments  His  hands  required, 
His  Church  in  perfect  symmetry  to  raise, 
And  fill  His  temple  with  His  glorious  blaze. 


iNE  day  in  the  course  of  1847  a  knot  of  young 
lawyers  were  standing  at  a  stationer's  window  in 
Chancery  Lane,  and  were  expressing  admiration 
to  one  another  as  they  gazed  at  a  newly  published 
portrait  of  a  chief  in  their  profession.  A  vener- 
able-looking man,  in  passing,  stopped  a  moment 
to  look ;  his  face  was  most  benignant,  serene,  and  yet  happily 
radiant.  He  was  between  eighty  and  ninety  years  of  age  ; 
but  his  clear  eye,  in  a  moment,  detected  in  the  portrait  a 
cloudy  tinge  and  gloomy  expression.  "  That  man  was  not 
happy,"  said  he.  "  Why  do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  young 
lawyers,  in  a  tone  of  displeasure.  "  A  happy  man  shows  it 
in  his  countenance,"  was  the  quick  response ;  and  the  old 
man  passed  on,  with  a  joyful  light  on  his  face,  leaving  the 
silenced  group  to  their  own  reflections.  This  was  Father 
Sutcliffe,  as  he  was  called,  the  Rev.  Joseph  Sutcliffe,  a 
lingering  relic  of  Wesley's  race  of  preachers,  a  last  surviving 
link  between  Wesley's  generation  and  the  next.  This  Method- 
ist patriarch,   born  at  Beildon,  in   Yorkshire,  February  13, 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  0>2  5 

1J62,  had  in  his  youth  attended  meetings  in'which  Grimshaw, 
of  Haworth,  John  Nelson,  Crosse,  of  Bradford,  and  John 
Wesley,  himself  had  taken  part.  He  has  happily  fixed  for 
us  some  reflections  of  his  early  experience  while  he  lived  a 
young  Churchman.  He  calls  his  verses  "  Litanies  and  Con- 
fessions." 

When  in  the  round  of  giddy  life, 
I  little  knew  the  inward  strife 

That  now  invades  my  breast ; 
But  when  the  light  on  me  had  shone, 
I  saw  myself  a  wretch  undone, 

Devoid  of  peace  and  rest. 

I  saw  the  good — the  good  approved, 
But  still  my  heart  its  evils  loved, 

And  strove  to  shun  the  day ; 
I  shunned  myself,  a  hateful  sight, 
And  in  my  folly  took  delight, 

And  went  the  more  astray. 

Happy  I  seemed  before  men's  eyes, 
And  wore  a  mask  of  gay  disguise, 

To  hide  my  secret  pain. 
Ah !  what  is  such  a  life  but  death, 
Which  stifles  all  the  heavenly  breath, 

And  leaves  me  with  the  slain. 

My  mind,  enlightened,  spoke  for  God, 
Preferred  the  good,  the  heavenly  road, 

But  said — 'Tis  yet  too  soon  ; 
I  strove  to  make  a  compromise, 
Before  His  face  to  temporise, 

Who  sees  at  night  as  noon. 

I  knew  that  earth  was  not  my  good, 
But  yet  the  phantom  still  pursued, 

Pursued  it  with  delight; 
'Twas  then  I  felt  the  war  within, 
Which  marshalled  all  the  powers  of  sin, 

Against  my  God  to  fight. 

The  young  inquirer  one  day  heard  a  Methodist  describe  his 
conversion  in  terms  which  awakened  earnest  thought.  "  That 
man,"  thought  he,  "  has  something  to  make  him  happy  that 
I  know  nothing  about."  He  sought  this  "something"  for 
himself  j    and,   while   occupied    in    his   ordinary    work,    he 


$l6  THE    POETS  OF   METHODISM. 

received  such  a  joyful  answer  to  his  prayer,  that  he  cried  out, 
"  This  is  what  the  Methodist  spoke  of  in  the  class-meeting." 
Seventy  years  afterwards  he  would  hold  listeners  in  happy 
suspense  while,  with  feelings  still  fresh,  he  told  over  again 
the  story  of  his  joys,  his  doings,  and  his  companionships,  in 
the  time  of  his  "  first  love."  He  began  his  ministry  as  a 
Methodist  preacher,  by  Mr.  Wesley's  appointment,  in  1786. 
The  whole  of  Oxfordshire  was  his  circuit,  in  the  year  of  Mr. 
Wesley's  death.  He  completed  his  fifty  years  of  active 
service  in  Rochester ;  and  then  took  up  his  residence  in 
London,  where,  for  twenty  years  more,  he  bore  his  testimony 
for  Christ,  sometimes  in  public,  but  always  by  a  bright  and 
lovely  example  of  pure,  tranquil,  and  joyful  Christianity. 
His  Biblical,  literary,  and  theological  attainments  were 
remarkable.  Besides  the  heavy  ordinary  work  of  a  travelling 
preacher,  he  instructed  the  world  and  the  Church  by  his  pen. 
His  literary  life  was  marked  by  many  curious  incidents  which 
he  used  to  relate  with  interesting  freshness  when  he  was  an 
old  man  of  ninety.  Among  his  works  were  "A  Gentleman's 
Guide  to  the  English  Language  ;  "  an  "  Essay  on  the  God- 
head of  Christ;"  "Sermons  on  Regeneration;"  "  Geological 
Essays;"  a  "Catechism  of  the  Christian  Religion;"  a 
"  Translation  of  Saurin's  Sermons;"  a"  Defence  of  the 
Immortality  of  the  Soul;  "  and  his  original,  spiritual,  edify- 
ing "  Commentary  on  the  Bible,"  remarkable  for  its  devout 
evidence  of  his  heavenliness,  as  much  as  for  its  proofs  of  his 
well-digested  learning.  With  all  this,  he  had  "  music  in  him- 
self." He  was  one  of  the  Poets  of  Methodism.  His  verses, 
like  his  prose  pages,  abound  with  thought  characteristic  of  a 
saintly  genius,  who  had  grace  and  power  to  give  a  Scriptural 
tone  and  spirit  to  his  effusions,  and  to  make  his  learning  serve 
in  attuning  the  soul  for  spiritual  song.  Many  of  his  stanzas 
are  transcripts  of  his  hallowed  mind,  full  of  meaning,  and 
beautiful  for  transparent  simplicity.  A  volume  of  "  Psalms 
and  Hymns,"  and  his  "  Union  Version  of  the  Psalms,  in 
Various  Metres,"  contain  much  that  generations  to  come 
will  like  to  chant  in  their  most  spiritual  mocds  ;  and  many  a 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  32/ 

psalm  that  will  help  to  preserve  the  memory  of  a  commenta- 
tor who  was  devoutly  familiar  with  the  idioms  of  the  sacred 
languages,  in  which  he  loved  daily  to  read  his  Lord's 
revealed  will.  His  version  of  the  second  Psalm  fairly  shows 
the  faithfulness  and  skill  with  which  he  could  make  both  the 
meaning  and  music  of  the  Hebrew  pass  pleasantly  into 
English  tunefulness  and  sense.  He  calls  it  "  A  Psalm  of 
Prophecy  ' ' — 

Why  do  the  Gentile  nations  rage, 
And  Israel's  hosts  with  them  engage, 
As  though  to  them  the  power  were  given 
To  overthrow  the  work  of  Heaven  ? 

The  rulers  join  the  tumult's  throng, 
And  kings  are  led  to  do  the  wrong  ; 
Jehovah  laughs  their  pride  to  scorn, 
Exalting  high  Messiah's  horn. 

This  day  the  Sire  declares  the  Son 
Associate  of  the  Father's  throne; 
He  bids  the  angry  earth  be  still, 
And  foes  o'errules  to  do  His  will. 

He  publishes  the  high  decree 
Of  grace  to  all  that  bow  the  knee  ; 
But  those  who  do  His  anger  dare 
Shall  perish  in  the  hopeless  war. 

Thou  art  my  Son,  I  hear  Him  say, 
Ask  what  thou  wilt  on  this  glad  day  ; 
I  give  the  heathen  world  to  Thee, 
To  set  the  sons  of  Adam  free. 

Then  hear,  O  earth  !  both  judge  and  king, 
And  haste  your  early  vows  to  bring  ; 
And  kiss  the  Son  while  wrath  delays, 
Nor  longer  dare  despise  His  grace. 

Among  sundry  jottings  found  in  an  old  note-book  is  this  : — 
"  It  was  about  two  years  before  his  death  that  I  was  first 
introduced  to  the  venerable  Joseph  Sutcliffe,  at  an  evening 
party  of  missionary  friends,  at  the  Centenary  Hall  and 
Mission  House,  in  Bishopsgate  Street,  London.  He  was 
seated  ;  and  his  daughter  was  standing  by  his  chair,  like  a 
guardian  and  ministering  angel.  He  looked  the  picture  of  a 
saintly    Methodist    patriarch,    a   beautiful    embodiment    of 


328  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

mature  benignity,  kindness,  simplicity,  and  love.  One  felt 
as  if  to  speak  to  him,  and  to  listen  to  his  holy  utterances 
was  to  have  a  sort  of  preparation  for  first  introductions  to 
"just  men  made  perfect."  Strange  associations  of  thought 
began  to  run  through  my  mind  when  my  eye  passed  from 
his  happy  countenance  to  his  neck  dress  ;  for  the  question 
arose  within  me,  '  Does  he  owe  anything  to  the  influence  of 
his  first  superintendent  ? '  The  image  of  that  superintendent 
came  up  before  me  as  I  have  seen  him  pictured,  and  as  I  have 
heard  him  described  by  my  father.  Mr.  Wesley  sent  Joseph 
Sutcliffe  to  Redruth,  in  Cornwall,  as  his  first  circuit ;  and 
there  his  superintendent  was  Francis  Wrigley,  a  little  man 
whose  face  betokened  a  disposition  to  pry  into  all  personal 
appearances.  At  that  time  there  were  signs  of  change  in  the 
fashion  of  Methodist  preachers'  neck  dress.  Wrigley  was 
orthodox.  He  wore  a  neckerchief — verily,  a  neckerchief, 
not  like  that  sign  of  later  times,  that  white  dog-collar,  like 
something  now  worn  by  Popish  priests,  and  young,  modern 
Methodist  parsons.  Wrigley's  neckerchief  was  real  and  sub- 
stantial cambric,  folded  so  as  to  show  no  end.  Some 
preachers  were  venturing  on  a  visible  bow  in  front.  This 
new  fashion  Wrigley  did  his  best  to  check.  My  father  told 
me  that,  at  any  great  gachering  of  preachers,  it  was  Wrigley's 
way  to  creep  about,  quietly  looking  into  the  thing ;  and 
wherever  a  little  knot  was  discoverable,  he  would  manage  to 
get  near  enough  to  take  the  little  ends  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  and  looking  somewhat  quizzically  into  the 
wearer's  face,  would  say,  '  What's  this,  my  brother  ?  What's 
this,  my  brother  r '  All  this  passed  within  while,  for  a  few 
minutes,  I  had  the  gentle  old  primitive  saint  before  me.  And 
again  and  again  the  old  chapel  at  Redruth,  and  the  figures 
of  the  neck-bow  hunting  superintendent  and  his  'young 
man  '  would  rise,  and  the  question  would  press  itself  once 
more — '  Had  Wrigley  anything  to  do  in  the  formation  of 
Sutcliffe's  neck-style  ?  '  Then  came  graver  thoughts.  I  saw 
n  the  one  before  me  an  old  veteran,  now  nearing  the  finish 
of  his  more  than  ninety  years'  life-battle ;  an  aged  Christian 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  329 

champion  ;  a  Methodist  missionary  spirit,  come  to  this  centre 
of  Methodist  missionary  action,  this  annual  gathering-  of 
those  who  still  claimed  the  '  world  as  their  parish ; '  and 
come  as  if  he  would  have  his  full  share  of  joy  in  the  results 
of  a  century's  toil,  before  he  said  to  his  approaching  Lord, 
1  Now  lettest  Thou  Thy  servant  depart  in  peace,  according  to 
Thy  word;  for  mine  eyes  have  seen  Thy  salvation.'  Nor 
could  I  help  thinking  of  the  old  poet's  own  missionary 
hymn,  a  favourite  with  me,  and,  as  I  afterwards  found,  a 
favourite  with  his  family  : — 

"  Zion,  arise  and  shine  ; 

Thy  light,  thy  God,  is  come  ; 

His  glory  beams  with  rays  divine, 

He  calls  thy  children  home. 

On  thy  anointed  race 

He  sheds  the  Spirit  down, 
To  sound  afar  His  righteousness, 

And  make  His  mercy  known. 

Like  gentle  showers  of  spring, 

It  falls  on  distant  lands  ; 
The  little  hills  rejoice  and  sing, 

The  valleys  clap  their  hands. 

Many  through  all  the  earth 

Are  running  to  and  fro, 
To  give  the  expected  ages  birth, 

And  vanquish  every  foe. 

Support  them  in  the  fight, 

Where  ancient  vices  reign  ; 
And  may  they,  in  the  Spirit's  might, 

The  rights  of  God  maintain. 

Let  valleys  for  them  rise, 

And  rocks  and  hills  give  way  ; 
Applain  their  path  to  win  the  prize, 

And  haste  the  latter  day. 

Let  truth  her  beauties  show, 

And  grace  her  charms  disclose  ; 
And  lay  the  daring  idols  low, 

And  triumph  o'er  Thy  foes. 

May  every  pagan  knee 

Bow  down  beneath  their  word  ; 
And  every  tongue  confess  to  thee 

That  Jesus  is  the  Lord. 


33°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

May  all  the  heathen  lands 

Be  sprinkled  with  His  blood  ; 
And  Ethiopia  stretch  her  hands, 

To  embrace  the  Saviour  God. 

May  all  the  nations  know 

The  Lord's  redeeming  love  ; 
Unite  them  to  thy  Church  below, 

And  then  thy  Church  above. 

From  Zion  shine  abroad, 

With  beams  of  truth  and  grace  ; 
And  let  the  earth  be  filled  with  God, 

And  healed  with  righteousness. 

O  haste  the  happy  day, 

The  prophet's  cheering  theme  ; 
And  wipe  thy  people's  tears  away, 

And  reign  the  Lord  supreme." 

Dear  old  man  !  The  weight  of  ninety  years  could  not  keep 
his  songs  from  breaking  forth.  He  would  sing  in  "  the 
house  of  his  pilgrimage  "  to  the  joy  of  his  family,  with  all 
the  liveliness  of  a  child,  and  the  reverent  tone  of  an  "  old 
man  in  Christ."  If  there  were  any  tears,  they  were  those  of 
overflowing  gratitude  ;  as  when  Thomas  Jackson's  notice  of 
him  in  his  "  Life  of  Robert  Newton  "  was  read,  he  wept  for 
some  time,  asked  to  hear  it  again,  and  then  mingled  prayers 
with  his  tears  for  those  who  thus  remembered  him.  His 
conversation  was  full  of  sacred  joy,  heavenliness,  and  con- 
secrated knowledge,  even  to  the  last.  On  the  14th  of  May, 
1856,  aged  ninety-four,  a  short  illness  checked  his  voice  ;  but 
his  face  grew  brighter  and  brighter,  till  his  sanctified  spirit 
passed  into  pure  immortal  brightness. 

"  I  never  pass  along  here,"  said  a  friend  to  his  companion, 
as  the  train  was  nearing  Sherborne,  in  Dorset,  "  without 
thinking  of  John  Bustard,  the  active  life  of  whose  body  and 
mind,  tongue  and  pen,  drew  to  a  close  in  Sherborne, 
yonder." 

"  Who,  and  what  was  he  ?  *' 

"  He  was  a  Methodist  preacher,  whose  memory  I  respect 
as  the  author  of  some  '  Memoirs  '  of  young  people  which  did 
me  good,   and  have,  I   believe,   been  blessings  both   to   the 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  331 

Church  and  the  world.'  He  was  one  of  the  older  stamp  of 
travelling  preachers.  He  was  a  Sheffield  man  by  birth,  born 
in  1783.  But,  like  the  greater  part  of  his  brethren  of  that 
class,  he  was  a  wandering  light — now  here,  now  there  ;  but 
everywhere,  having  '  a  psalm,  a  doctrine,  a  tongue,  a  revela- 
tion, an  interpretation '  for  his  neighbours ;  and  having  them 
always  '  to  edification/  I  say,  he  always  had  '  a  psalm,' 
for  he  was  a  psalmist  in  his  way,  and  had  some  genius  for 
giving  wholesome  lessons,  to  young  people  especially,  by 
putting  them  to  sing  truth  expressed  tunefully  in  his  simple 
and  thoughtful  hymns." 

"  Did  he  publish  any  of  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  while  he  was  fulfilling  his  ministry  at  Deal,  in 
Kent,  after  labouring  in  various  places  for  ten  years,  he  sent 
out  his  first  little  volume  of  forty-eight  pages,  entitled  '  Kent 
Sunday  School  Hymns.'  The  whole  edition  was  sold  in  the 
neighbourhood  j  and  more  than  forty  years  elasped  before  a 
new  issue  appeared.  When  he  retired,  in  his  sixtieth  year, 
from  his  more  active  life  as  a  preacher,  his  leisure  here  near 
Sherborne  was  improved  and  beguiled  by  the  preparation  of 
a  larger  book,  including  his  former  hymns,  with  additional 
pieces,  chiefly  on  Scriptural  themes.  It  was  published  as 
'  Scripture  Themes,  in  Rills  and  Streams  ;  being  Effusions  in 
Verse,  on  Scripture  Characters,  Facts,  Morals,  &c.'  Some  of 
his  hymns  are  suited  to  adults,  and  might  tempt  many  to 
lift  up  their  voices." 

u  Does  your  memory  serve  you  with  one  as  a  specimen  ?" 

"  I'll  try.  The  first  in  the  book  is,  perhaps,  one  of  his 
best ;  and  it  is  not  unwisely  placed  in  the  front.  A  quaint 
old  man,  whom  I  knew,  used  to  act  on  the  principle  of 
putting  the  worst  side  of  himself  foremost  in  his  first  inter- 
view with  anybody.  '  It  is  best,'  he  said,  '  for  then  one 
grows  upon  people.',  I  am  not  sure,  however,  that  the 
principle  is  a  wise  one ;  for  I  often  think  of  an  oracular 
saying  from  the  lips  of  a  great  and  good  man.  '  The  first 
and  last  things  are  always  impressive.'  And  I  think  that  in 
a  book,  as  well  as  in  the  opening  of  a  public  address,  a  good 


332  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

impression    made,   to    begin    with,  goes   far    to   secure   the 

object  of  the  author  or  speaker.    Well,  John  Bustard  begins 

with   a  hymn    of  'Praise   to    God,'  and   helps   us  to   sir 

thus  : — 

11  Hail,  Lord  of  angel  hosts  above  ! 
Of  all  earth's  sons  below  ! 
By  whom  we  are,  and  live,  and  move, 
Whose  greatness  we  would  show. 

Thyself — eternal !  naught  beside 

Can  justly  vie  with  Thee : — 
Not  those  Thy  bounty  has  supplied 

With  immortality. 

Whate'er  we  see,  or  hear,  or  know, 

Imprinted  with  Thy  Name, 
Fails  not  Thy  excellence  to  show, 

Thy  greatness  to  proclaim. 

What  beauty — order,  harmony, 

In  all  Thy  works  we  find  : 
But  we,  in  Revelation,  see 

The  glories  of  Thy  mind. 

The  sun  on  smaller  orbs  doth  shine, 

And  needeth  not  their  rays  ; 
So  as  the  praise  we  give  is  Thine, 

Thou  needest  not  our  praise. 

We  do  not  with  our  praise  presume 

To  pay  the  debt  we  owe ; 
But  bring  it  as  a  sweet  perfume, 

Our  gratitude  to  show. 

Yes — we  would  gratefully  receive 

The  blessings  Thou  hast  given; 
And  sing  hosannahs  while  we  live 

On  earth,  and  then  in  heaven. 

Though  feeble  is  the  voice  we  raise 

Before  Thy  sacred  throne, 
We  emulate  the  seraphs'  praise, 

To  make  Thy  glory  known. 

While  nature,  providence,  and  grace, 

Thy  attributes  proclaim, 
We  e'er  shall  have  a  theme  for  praise, 

And  will  extol  Thy  Name." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  companion,  as  the  train  pulled  up, 
"  John   Bustard's  first  hymn,  at  all  events,  is  worthy  of 
place  in  a  '  Book  of  Praise.'      I  detected  no  feebleness   in 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  2>33 

the  rhyming,  nothing  offensive  in  the  rhythm  ;  while  there 
are  some  happy  turns  of  thought;  and  the  spirit  of  the 
hymn  lifts  the  mind  into  devotion,  and  does  the  heart 
.good.'' 

There  are  some  things  which,  when  looked  at  singly  and 
separately  from  their  proper  associations  and  surroundings, 
appear  to  be  ill-proportioned  and  tuneless ;  but  when  viewed 
in  their  fitness  to  other  things,  and  in  their  natural  adaptation 
to  circumstances,  inspire  us  with  a  sense  of  beauty  and  har- 
mony. So,  were  many  of  our  popular  songs  to  be  judged 
irrespective  of  origin,  allusion,  the  power  of  adapted  music, 
and  passing  times  and  circumstances,  they  would  scarcely 
find  a  place  among  the  productions  of  poetic  genius.  It 
might  be  so  even  with  our  own  national  anthem.  Such  a 
thought  occurred  to  one  who  was  passing  a  Primitive  Metho- 
dist meeting-room  as  the  closely  packed  congregation  was 
singing.  The  earnestness,  the  harmony,  the  spirit,  and  the 
influence  of  the  singing  would  arrest  any  soul  that  was  alive 
to  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a  large  number  of  good  human 
voices  in  unison,  under  the  inspiration  of  warm  devotional 
feeling.  The  known  character  of  the  singers,  the  memory 
of  the  one  who  furnished  the  words  that  were  sung,  and  the 
thought  that  the  same  song  had  been  sung  by  millions  of 
happy  Christians,  to  whom  high-class  poetry  would  be  com- 
paratively powerless — all  served  to  deepen  the  feeling  that 
verses  which  could  call  up  harmonies  of  soul  and  voice  from 
such  multitudes,  and  with  such  effect,  had  a  poetry  in  them 
of  their  own  which,  if  not  evident  to  a  severe  reading  critic, 
is  felt  by  those  who  find  themselves  the  better  for  singing : — 

Christ,  He  sits  on  Zion's  hill, 
He  receives  poor  sinners  still. 
"Will  you  serve  this  Blessed  King? 
Come,  enlist,  and  with  me  sing  : 

I  His  soldier  sure  shall  be, 

Happy  in  eternity. 

Surely,  if  the  spirit  of  Hugh  Bourne,  the  author  of  this 
hymn,  could  have  heard  that  assembly  of  his  followers,  as 


334  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

with  joyful  swing  and  swell  they  repeated  the  chorus  again 

and  again, 

I  His  soldier  sure  shall  be, 
Happy  in  eternity, 

he  would  have  found  his  heaven  brightened  by  the  thought 
that  the  hymn  had  been  the  utterance  of  his  soul,  poet  or  no 
poet,  in  the  estimation  of  critics. 

That  Hugh  Bourne  should  ever  have  been  a  hymnist  may 
be  considered  a  marvel.  It  is  a  fact,  however,  that  he  set  all 
the  Methodist  camp-meetings  a-singing  in  all  places,  nnd 
through  all  times.  He  was  born  in  a  romantic  part  of  Staf- 
fordshire, Fordhays,  near  Stoke-upon-Trent,  April  7,  1772  •  and 
after  living  for  four  score  years  a  life  of  continuously  intense 
devotion  to  Christ  and  His  kingdom  among  men,  he  fell 
asleep  amidst  visions  of  old  companions  in  glory.  His  hymn 
on  "  Walking  with  God  "  might  be  the  record  of  his  own 
life's  walk : — 

Enoch,  the  seventh,  walked  with  God 

Through  a  long  course  of  years  ; 
He  rested  in  the  Saviour's  blood, 

While  in  this  vale  of  tears. 

While  here  on  earth  he  lived  by  faith, 

And  grew  in  perfect  love  ; 
By  faith  he  triumph'd  over  death, 

And  rose  to  Heaven  above. 

May  we,  like  Enoch,  walk  with  God, 

And  in  His  image  grow  ; 
Still  live  by  faith  in  Jesus'  blood, 

And  speak  His  praise  below. 

At  last  triumphant,  may  we  rise, 

Through  His  almighty  love, 
To  shout  His  praise  beyond  the  skies, 

And  reign  with  Him  above. 

A  peculiar  interest  gathers  around  Hugh  Bourne,  both  as 
a  preacher  and  a  hymnist.  Timid  as  he  naturally  was,  his 
zeal  was  such  that,  under  the  pressure  of  circumstances,  he 
became  the  originator  of  that  large  branch  of  Methodism 
knowrn  as  the  "  Primitive  Methodist  Church."  He  became 
a  Methodist  on  his  conversion   in  1799.     In  the  course  of 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMXISTS.  33$ 

1 800  his  business  called  him  to  travel  over  the  district  of 
Dales-green,  Hornseahead,  Mow  Cop,  Kidsgrove,  and  Congle- 
ton.  In  these  journeys  he  met  with  a  few  spiritually  minded 
people,  and  on  the  day  before  Christmas,  1800,  a  meeting 
was  held  for  devotion.  The  spirit  of  prayer,  was  on  them. 
They  met  again  and  again,  and  always  parted  with  regret 
that  they  could  not  prolong  their  seasons  of  pleasure.  One 
day  it  was  suggested  that  they  "  should  have  a  meeting  upon 
Mow  Cop  some  Sunday,  and  have  a  whole  day's  praying." 
That  meeting  was  held,  and  was  the  germ  of  the  "eamp- 
meetings,"  afterwards  to  become  so  remarkable.  In  1801 
Bourne  began  to  preach.  A  time  of  spiritual  revival  followed, 
throwing  its  influence  far  and  wide.  "William  Clowes 
became  Bourne's  associate  j  and  soon  they  had  assemblies 
after  the  style  of  American  camp-meetings,  their  first  being 
held  on  the  Cheshire  side  of  the  rugged  hill  known  as  Mow 
Cop.  The  Methodist  authorities  by-and-by  interfered  and 
opposed  the  movement.  This  was  unhappy.  It  was 
another  of  the  ecclesiastical  mistakes  for  which  the  Church 
has  so  often  suffered ;  but  out  of  which,  sometimes,  as  in 
this  case,  Divine  wisdom  has  brought  many  blessings. 
There  was  a  separation.  Bourne  and  Clowes  took  the  lead 
in  a  new  organisation  ;  and  in  1S11,  the  distinct  society  was 
formed  at  Tunstal.  Then  came  the  necessity  for  "  A  Col- 
lection of  Hymns  for  Camp-meetings,  Revivals,  Sec,  for  the 
use  of  the  Primitive  Methodists."  In  this  work,  Bourne 
was  assisted  by  an  eccentric  preacher  and  rhymer,  William 
Sanders,  who  could  hold  a  conversation  in  rhyme  ;  and  was 
now  prepared  to  suggest  ideas  to  his  chief,  who  had  the 
more  scholarship  and  judgment.  The  hymns,  as  might  be 
expected,  breathed  deep  piety,  burning  love  for  souls,  and 
intense  zeal  for  Christ.  Defects  in  music  there  might  be. 
Bourne's  purpose,  however,  was  to  keep  the  revival  spirit 
alive,  and  to  fan  the  flame  of  zeal  among  a  people  to  be 
affected  most  by  hymns,  simple  in  thought,  homely  in  lan- 
guage, and  expressive  of  the  wants  of  generally  poor  and 
unlettered  folk.     The  history  of  his  followers  is  the  proof  of 


336  THE     TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

his  success.  Thousands  upon  thousands  have  arisen  to  obey 
the  call  of  their  departed  hymnist,  and  have  pursued  the 
objects  which  he  placed  before  them,  singing,  as  they  toil,  of 
"  Salvation  for  All." 

Ye  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Lord, 
Arise,  and  preach  His  sacred  Word  ; 
Go  forth,  endued  with  power  and  grace, 
And  preach  the  Word  in  every  place. 

In  streets  and  lanes  declare  His  name, 
And  in  highways  His  truth  proclaim; 
In  open  fields  His  standard  raise, 
And  sound  the  great  Jehovah's  praise. 

To  wretched  outcasts  straight  make  known 
What  Christ,  the  Lord,  for  them  hath  done  ; 
Go,  lead  them  to  the  Saviour's  blood, 
That  they  may  praise  a  pard'ning  God, 

Unlock  the  treasures  of  His  grace 
To  every  child  of  Adam's  race  ; 
Teach  them  in  righteousness  to  grow, 
And  perfect  holiness  below. 

Up  among  the  storied  places  of  the  old  northern  border ; 
amidst  the  floating  memories  of  "Chevy  Chase"  and  the 
"  Hermit  of  Warkworth,"  where  the  shades  of  monkery 
used  to  haunt  the  ruins  of  Hulne  and  Alnwick  Abbeys  ;  by 
Malcolm's  Cross,  the  witness  of  the  Scotch  William  the 
Lion's  capture,  and  within  the  walls  of  Alnwick  Castle ; 
about  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century,  there  was  a  boy 
who  used  to  prowl  with  that  enthusiastic,  lively,  but  harmless 
curiosity  with  which  none  but  boys  of  genius  prowl.  His 
boy-like  prowling  may  be  called  harmless,  though  it  might 
have  been  sufficiently  free  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  battle- 
ground of  old  "  moss-troopers,"  and  sufficiently  wild  to 
accord  with  the  ballad  poetry  of  the  region.  The  boy  may 
have  caught  some  of  the  spirit  of  that  wild  minstrelsy,  and  that 
spirit  may  have  had  something  to  do  in  the  shaping  of  his 
character,  and  with  the  bent  of  his  tastes.  He  was  born  at 
Alnwick,  on  May  16,  17S4.  His  grandfather  was  a 
Methodist,  who  built  the  first  Methodist  chapel   in  the  old 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HTMN1STS.  337 

border  town.  His  grandmother  was  a  Scotch  Keith,  and 
had  acted  as  an  associate  in  the  management  of  the  Methodist 
Orphan  House,  in  Newcastle,  with  the  woman  who  heart- 
lessly jilted  John  Wesley.  His  mother,  too,  was  a  Methodist 
*'  character  "  in  the  town,  a  worthy  woman.  His  own  con- 
version resulted  in  his  admission  to  the  Methodist  ministry 
in  r8o6.  He  became  literary,  and  popular,  though  sterling,  as 
a  preacher.  His  genius  and  tastes  were  too  free,  and  his 
mental  pursuits  too  varied,  to  allow  of  desire  on  his  part  for 
official  distinction,  or  of  readiness  in  officials  to  distinguish 
him.  In  the  year  j  817  he  resided  in  Sheffield,  and  formed 
a  close  friendship  with  two  poetic  spirits,  James  Mont- 
gomery and  J.  Holland.  Here  his  tuneful  genius  was 
revived ;  and,  moved  possibly  by  the  old  spirit  of  the  border- 
land, as  well  as  influenced  by  his  poetic  companionship,  he 
issued  a  poem,  entitled,  "  Edwin  -y  or,  Northumbrian  Royal 
Captive  Restored,''  with  other  small  poetic  pieces.  The 
versifying  trio  in  Sheffield  gave  their  genius  to  the  aid  of 
Sunday  Schools ;  and  young  voices  were  often  heard  singing 
the  songs  furnished  under  the  well-known  initials — "  J.  M.," 
f'J.  H.,"  and  "  J.  E."  Some  of  these  appeared  afterwards 
as  a  collection  of  nineteen  "  Hymns  for  Children,  for 
Sabbath  School  Unions,  and  School  Anniversaries,  by  J.  E. ; " 
that  is,  by  James  Everett,  for  he  it  was.  The  preface  of  the 
second  edition  was  dated  Manchester,  183 1.  And  some  may 
be  living  with  a  lively  recollection  of  a  hymn  that  was  sung 
there  as  "  A  Hymn  of  Thanksgiving  for  Preservation  from 
Cholera."  Those  who,  at  that  time,  in  other  parts  of  the 
kingdom,  became  painfully  familiar  with  scenes  of  pestilence, 
will  all  the  more  revere  the  memory  of  a  Methodist  hymnist 
who  had  taste,  and  feeling,  and  music  enough  in  himself  to 
teach  his  neighbours  and  their  children  to  sing. 

Within  our  isle,  along  our  shores, 
The  angel  of  destruction  pours 

The  vials  of  his  wrath  : 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  young,  the  old, 
The  strong,  the  timid,  and  the  bold, 

Have  met  him  in  their  path. 


33^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

But  vainly  do  they  interpose  ! 
O'er  isles  and  continents  he  goes, 

Nor  aught  can  bar  his  way  : 
In  Russia  and  the  glowing  East, 
In  seasons,  climes — expected  least, 

He  marks  his  route  with  prey. 

He  dips  like  sea-fowl  on  the  tide, 
And  reappearing  far  and  wide, 

Surprise  and  terror  spread  ; 
He  breathes,  and  sickness  in  his  breath 
Induces  agony  and  death  : 

The  living  fear  the  dead. 

While  moving  his  mysterious  round, 
In  life  and  health  we  still  are  found, 

Before  our  Master's  face. 
Let  now,  O  Lord,  Thine  arm  be  bared, 
And  whom  Thy  providence  hath  spared, 

Save  fully  by  Thy  grace. 

In  awe  of  Thee  we  still  would  stand, 
In  prayer  to  Thee  we  bear  our  land, 

And  still  on  Thee  rely  : 
Remove  the  scourge,  upon  us  smile, 
And  bless  Thy  church,  our  King,  our  Isle, 

Then  bear  us  up  on  high. 

The  man  who  could  hymn  it  in  this  manner  was  worthy 
of  the  task  which  afterwards  devolved  upon  him.  He,  with 
others  of  equal  freedom  of  spirit,  though  of  less  genius,  had, 
in  1849,  to  Pa-V  tne  Penalty  °f  restlessness  under  ecclesiastical 
rule,  tightly  held  by  those  between  whose  style  of  constitu- 
tion and  his  own  all  sympathy  had  been  lost.  His  pen,  it 
had  been  alleged,  had  been  too  free,  and  not  willing  to  drop 
it,  he  was  dropped  from  his  old  connections.  The  United 
Free  Methodist  Churches  were  formed  3  and  at  their  annual 
assembly  in  Sheffield,  in  1859,  he,  with  another  minister,  was 
appointed  to  prepare  a  hymn-book  for  the  use  of  the 
numerous  separated  societies  and  congregations.  Were  there 
no  other  good  flowing  out  from  amidst  the  unhappy 
ecclesiastical  displacements  of  that  period,  one  spiritual  song 
of  James  Everett's,  found  in  the  hymn-book  of  the  new 
churches,  would  charm  the  lover  of  bright  psalmody  into 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  339 

forgetfulness  of  all  the  unaccountable  infatuations  of  con- 
tentious men,  by  leading  him  up  to  sing  on  "  Mount 
Tabor"  :— 

How  glorious  the  mount  to  behold, 

With  Jesus  transfigur'd  in  light, 

When  seen  by  the  prophets  of  old, 

Who  triumph'd  and  glow'd  at  the  sight ! 
When  seen  by  apostles — amaz'd — 

The  story  of  death  on  their  ear, 
Who  shrank  from  the  glory  that  blaz'd, 
Yet  said  "  It  is  good  to  be  here.'' 

What  emblem  more  bright  to  the  eye  ? 

What  union  below  so  complete  ? 
Two  delegates  sent  from  the  sky, 

The  Christian  disciples  to  meet ! 
Where  each  for  his  church  may  attend, 

And  honour  the  old  and  the  new, 
Acknowledge  the  Lord  as  a  Friend, 

The  Head  of  the  whole  to  the  view. 

That  Head  we  confess  and  adore, 

Adore,  as  united  we  stand, 
Confess  Him,  like  those  gone  before, 

Who  lov'd  to  obey  His  command  ; 
And  fully  transform'd  by  His  grace, 

May  we,  as  transfigur'd  He  shone, 
Behold  the  bright  smiles  of  his  face, 

And,  "  like  Him,"  be  claim'd  for  His  own. 

Samuel  Dunn  was  James  Everett's  companion  in  tribula- 
tion when  they  found  themselves  pressed  by  the  tight 
discipline  of  the  Church  whose  ministry  they  had  adorned. 
Dunn,  whom  Dr.  Adam  Clarke,  his  friend,  had  called  "  the 
Apostle  of  the  Shetland  Isles,"  had  shown  himself  in  early 
life  equal  to  his  mission,  or  any  mission  for  Christ.  He  was 
strong  in  will,  of  unconquerable  courage,  of  vigorous  intel- 
lect, and  untiring  zeal.  He  came  of  a  hardy  stock.  His 
birthplace  was  a  quaint  little  fishing  port  on  the  southern 
coast  of  Cornwall,  the  zig-zag,  up-and-down  streets  and 
alleys  of  which  seemed  to  be  made  for  the  advantage  of 
smugglers  in  their  runs  from  officers  of  the  revenue.  The 
Dunns  went  far  to  people  the  homes  of  Mevagissey,  and 
among  the  progeny  was  Samuel,  born  in  May,  1798.  He  was 
brought  to  enjoy  ".  peace  with  God  "  during  what  was  called 


340  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 

in   Cornwall   "the  great  revival  of   1814."      He  became   a 
remarkable  Methodist  preacher. 

"  I  should  never  have  thought,  when  I  first  knew  you," 
said  he  to  an  old  friend  whose  pages  at  times  were  thought 
to  be  somewhat  florid,  "  that  you  would  have  shown  yourself 
so  imaginative.   Look  at  my  writings — my  style  is  otherwise." 

Yes,  verily,  so  it  is.  And  who  that  knew  Samuel  Dunn  in 
his  mid  career  could  have  suspected  that  he  would  turn  poet 
at  sixty  r  Poet  ?  No,  he  never  turned  poet  •  nor  was  he 
born  one.  Yet  at  sixty  he  began  to  write  hymns  j  and  some 
of  them  are  good  helps  to  devotion.  He  intended  them  to  be 
nothing  else.  On  his  separation  from  the  Church  of  his 
fathers,  he  became  the  pastor  of  a  congregation  which  he 
gathered  in  Camborne,  in  Cornwall,  a  town  and  neighbour- 
hood in  which  his  labours  as  a  Wesleyan  minister  had  been. 
largely  and  richly  fruitful.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  con- 
ceived the  notion  of  writing  hymns  for  his  people,  as  well  as 
preaching  to  them.  He  did  it,  and  a  large  number  of  hymns 
were  published  in  a  volume  entitled,  "  Hymns  for  Pastors 
and  People."  They  are  all  on  portions  of  Scripture,  and  are 
intended  to  express,  in  measured  words,  the  substance  of 
sermons  which  he  has  delivered  to  his  congregation.  He 
aimed  at  providing  spiritual  songs  embodying  the  full  scope 
of  the  texts  on  which  they  are  founded  ;  and  to  examine 
them  is  to  find  soundness  of  doctrine,  evangelical  experience, 
and  warm  encouragements  to  devotion.  Fine  poetic  beauty 
must  not  be  looked  for ;  though  here  and  there  the  reader 
may  be  filled  with  "a  sweet  surprise"  at  meeting  with 
touches  of  beautiful  thought,  finely  expressed ;  as  when  he 
sings  about  the  prophet's  vision  of  the  holy  waters  from  the 
temple — 

Oh,  the  river  !   oh,  the  river  ! 

Now  we  feel  its  influence  come ; 
Deeper,  broader,  fresher,  sweeter, 

Onward,  onward,  give  it  room. 
Lo,  the  river  !  lo,  the  river  ! 

Is  become  a  mighty  sea  ; 
Sinking  deeper,  we  rise  higher, 

Cleans'd  from  all  impurity. 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMNISTS.  341 

The  hymnist  sometimes  fails  in  his  imitations  ;  and  when, 
also,  he  attempts  to  decry  a  particular  vice  in  rhyme  and 
measure,  he  has  not  enough  of  poetic  genius  and  skill  to  do 
it  well.  But  while  he  sings  on  the  themes  which,  as  a 
Methodist  preacher  of  the  old  cast,  he  keeps  distinctly 
before  his  own  soul,  and  puts  distinctly  before  his  hearers,  he 
succeeds  in  fulfilling  his  purpose  as  a  hymn  writer.  Thus,  in 
his  way,  he  is  happy  in  the  simple  tunefulness  of  his  song  on 
"  The  Perfect  Man  "  : — 

The  perfect  man  has  faith  in  God, 

A  hope  within  the  vail ; 
A  joy  that  swells  like  Jordan's  flood, 

A  peace  unspeakable. 

He  loves  the  Lord  with  his  whole  heart, 

And  serves  Him  with  his  might ; 
In  all  things  acts  a  humble  part, 

And  ever  walks  upright. 

When  the  last  messenger  shall  come, 

His  spirit  to  release, 
And  waft  him  to  his  heavenly  home, 

He  will  depart  in  peace. 

O  Jesus,  wash  me  in  Thy  blood, 

And  perfect  me  in  love  ; 
Uprightly  may  I  walk  with  God, 

And  reign  with  Thee  above. 

"There  was  once  a  curious  and  rather  exciting  scene  at 
Camborne,"  says  an  eye-witness.  "I  was  invited  by  Mr. 
Dunn  to  join  him  in  an  out-door  religious  service.  I  went. 
On  entering  the  town,  I  found  myself  marched  with  a  large 
number  of  praying  and  singing  men  to  a  position  closely  in 
front  of  a  booth,  occupied,  during  the  fair,  by  a  company  of 
wandering  players.  I  soon  discovered  that  it  would  require 
all  the  power  I  had  to  preserve  my  gravity.  The  first  thing 
I  saw,  on  stepping  upon  the  chair  placed  for  me,  was  the 
'  clown '  of  the  company  standing  grinning  by  the  side  of  a 
huge  black  dog,  which  stood  supported  on  his  hind  legs,  with 
clerical  bands  on  his  neck,  and  one  of  Mr.  Dunn's  tracts 
hanging  from  his  paw.  No  muscle  of  Mr.  Dunn's  face 
moved.  With  a  clear  voice  he  gave  out  a  hymn.  His  men 
sang  mightily.     And  they  had  need  to j  for  the  player's  band 


342  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

struck  up,  and  the  clown  cut  capers.  Then  man  after  man 
on  our  side  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer.  I  was  called  upon 
to  speak,  but  failed  to  master  the  din  from  the  stage.  Then 
my  stern  companion  tried ;  and  when  his  voice  failed,  he 
would  hold  up  large  placards  with  scriptural  sentences  on 
them,  such  as  '  The  wages  of  sin  is  death  ! '  and  continue  to 
point  to  the  words  until  a  lull  afforded  another  opportunity 
for  prayer  or  exhortation.  The  players  at  length  tried 
squibs  ;  but  Dunn  defied  them  j  and  a  crowd  of  miners,  who 
could  be  still,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  enjoy  the  fun, — some 
of  them  at  least, — while  the  Methodist  preacher  was  un- 
touched, considered  a  shower  of  fireworks  by  no  means  fair 
play,  and  rushing  upon  the  booth,  they  made  it  shake  and 
quiver  beneath  their  charge.  The  fifers  and  drummer  fled. 
The  poor  clown  shrieked  with  pain  and  terror  in  the  grip  of 
iron  hands,  and  at  length  the  field  was  cleared.  Dunn  theu 
lifted  up  his  voice  to  the  people,  and  besought  them,  for 
Christ's  sake,  and  their  own,  to  '  flee  from  the  wrath  to 
come.'  The  singing  at  the  close  was  thrilling,  and  a 
Quaker,  who  had  been  quietly  watching  the  whole  proceeding 
from  a  window,  said  afterwards,  '  I  tell  thee,  there  was  a  deep 
moral  effect.'  There  was  more  than  that,  I  believe,  as  the 
fruit  of  those  four  hours'  'battling  with  the  devil  on  his  own 
ground,'  as  Dunn  called  it.  Often  since  then  have  I  thought 
of  that  scene  as  illustrative  of  a  burning  desire  to  save  men ; 
*  by  all  means  to  save  some — pulling  them  out  of  the  fire.' 
This,  I  am  persuaded,  was  the  overmastering  desire  of  Samuel 
Dunn,  and  to  this  constraining  zeal,  he  gave  characteristic 
expression  in  a  hymn  which  he  issued  from  that  same  Cam- 
borne under  the  heading,  '  Save  Some '  : — 

"  Unsaved,  O  Lord,  the  people  are, 
Guilty  and  know  not  Thee; 
"Without  Thy  love,  without  Thy  fear, 
In  sin  and  misery. 

By  unbelief  they  have  denied 

And  mocked  Thee  to  Thy  face  ; 
And  in  their  prejudice  and  pride, 

Despised  Thy  richest  grace. 


LATER-DAY    CLERICAL    HYMXISTS.  343 

Oh  !  that  I  could  some  sinners  win, 

Thy  love  who  have  not  known  ! 
And  raise  them  from  the  death  of  sin, 

To  live  for  Thee  alone. 

Gladly  would  I  take  up  my  cross, 

Despise,  like  Thee,  the  shame; 
And  count  all  worldly  gain  but  loss, 

To  glorify  Thy  name. 

Cheerful  to  snatch  the  brands  from  hell, 

I  would  myself  deny ; 
Pray,  and  exhort,  invite,  compel, 

Suffer,  and  toil,  and  die." 

Perhaps  no  better  sketch  of  this  zealous  preacher  aud 
bymoist  was  ever  given  than  one  from  the  pen  of  his  friend 
Everett.  "  Samuel  Dunn,  an  intelligent  face,  middle  size, 
active,  industrious;  one  of  the  first  Wesleyan  missionaries 
to  the  Zetland  Islands  ;  author  of  some  single  sermons,  and 
has  also  published  excellent  selections  from  the  voluminous 
writings  of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke,  J.  Goodwin,  Calvin,  &c. ;  great 
care,  judgment,  and  somewhat  concise,  as  well  as  precise; 
clear,  good  style,  though  not  rich  or  elegant ;  substantial 
matter ;  sometimes  rousing  ;  vehement  in  his  delivery,  but 
not  impassioned  ;  devout  in  his  manner ;  all  studied  ;  faith- 
ful, conscientious  ;  clear,  good  voice  ;  rapid,  when  loudest ; 
inflexible ;  not  wrapped  up  in  the  chrysalis  of  pomp,  like  an 
insect  in  the  pupa  state,  which  some  showy  preachers  too 
much  resemble  ;  but  a  real  workman,  whom  some  writers 
would  classify  among ]  the  principal  organs  of  human 
greatness." 


344  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A     POETICAL      SATIRIST. 

Sow  thy  seed,  and  reap  in  gladness  ! 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed  ; 
Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness, 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 


jjjT  six  o'clock  on  a  May  morning,  some  forty  years 
ago,  the  Methodist  Synod  of  a  south-western 
province  met  for  the  transaction  of  Church 
business.  From  five  to  six  o'clock  the  pres- 
bytery had  sat  with  the  congregation  to  hear  a 
sermon  from  a   young    man   now    attending  the- 

Synod  for  the  first  time.     The  Methodists  then  seemed  to 

act  on  the  faith  that 

The  breath  of  morn  is  sweeter  far 
Than  all  the  livelong  day  beside. 

They  had  not  as  yet  ceased  to  observe  John  Wesley's  mode 
of  taking  time  by  the  forelock.  Other  estimates  of  the 
comparative  value  of  day  and  night  were,  perhaps,  coming 
into  fashion  even  then ;  but  these  itinerants  were  not  given 
to  change.  At  all  events,  they  were  simple  enough  to  lag 
behind  in  the  march  of  Methodist  civilization.  What  could 
be  expected  at  their  great  distance  from  central  intelligence 
and  culture  ?  At  six  o'clock,  then,  they  were  at  business, 
and  almost  the  first  act  for  the  morning  was  to  pronounce 
judgment  on  the  twelve  months'  reading  of  the  young  man 
whose  sermon  they  had  just  listened  to.  His  list  was 
handed  in.  Alas  !  for  him,  he  felt  in  conscience  bound 
to  report  on  the  entire  course  of  his  year's  study.     He  had 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  345 

been  disposed  to  "  sow  beside  all  waters."  Greek,  Latin, 
French,  and  English  classics  were  wrought  up  in  his  system 
with  ecclesiastical  history,  biblical  criticism,  and  Methodist 
theology.  To  some  minds  it  appeared  as  if  the  student  had 
been  spending  too  much  of  the  year  in  questionable  com- 
pany. So  the  presiding  elder  thought.  Now,  it  happened 
that  the  chair  was  held  by  a  divine  who  thought  himself  a 
poet.  Everybody  did  not  think  so.  It  was  known  that  the 
young  man  now  before  his  elders  did  not  think  so.  Perhaps 
he  had  learnt,  in  communion  with  true  poets,  how  to  esti- 
mate false  ones,  who  have  the  knack  of  making  dull  prose 
go  in  limping  rhyme.  At  all  events,  he  had  not  put  the 
chairman's  poem  into  his  list.  The  chairman  became  severe. 
"There  was,"  it  was  pronounced,  "too  much  poetry  in  this 
young  man's  list  of  books.  It  would  have  been  better  for 
him  had  he  spent  more  time  in  solid  reading,  such  as  would 
have  been  more  in  keeping  with  pulpit  work."  The  young 
student  was  dumb.  But  at  this  crisis  up  rose  a  presbyter  as 
advocate.  There  was  nothing  imposing  in  the  figure  of  the 
advocate.  He  was  not  above  middle  height,  was  rather 
thin,  and  somewhat  of  a  stooping  form,  with  the  bearing  of 
one  who  would  be  more  at  ease  among  books  than  in 
ordinary  genteel  society ;  or  who,  having  his  choice  between 
the  drawing-room  and  a  cell,  would  say — 

Let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

Be  seen  in  some  high,  lcnely  tower, 

"Where  I  may  oft  out-watch  the  Bear, 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Piato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook. 

His  face,  however,  would  at  once  fix  attention ;  and,  as  he 
leant  bending  over  the  table,  and  throwing  a  momentary 
glance  around  before  he  turned  his  eye  on  the  chairman,  it 
was  clear  that  his  decision  would  be  heard  with  interest. 
There  was  something  in  his  countenance  that  might  indicate 


34^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

possible  hardness :  high  cheek-bones,  with  other  severely- 
outlined  features ;  a  mouth  somewhat  prominent,  but  with 
lips  compressed  in  such  a  way  that  they  seemed  to  be 
wanting  moisture  j  eyes  that  could  come  out  with  a  flash, 
or  retire  under  the  powerful-looking  brow  as  if  to  gather 
fresh  light.  Every  feature  could  evidently  take  part  in 
expressing  keen  wit  and  biting  sarcasm  ;  and  yet,  in  com- 
bination, they  were  capable  of  giving  out  the  language  of 
gentleness,  kindness,  and  generosity. 

"  Mr.  Chairman,"  said  he,  while  satire  and  waggery 
seemed  to^play  on  his  upper  lip  and  under  his  eyebrows, 
"  I  speak  with  submission.  It  surprises  me  to  hear  you 
complain  of  too  much  poetry.  On  looking  over  this  list, 
there  is  surely  logic,  biblical  criticism,  and  sound  theology 
enough  to  balance  all  the  poetry,  and  poetry  enough  to  keep 
the  beam  steady.  It  might  have  been  a  doubtful  matter 
had  the  poetry  been  flimsy  or  false  j  but  all  the  poetry  here 
is  true  poetry,  and,  in  relation  to  the  other  readings,  nothing 
other  than  a  lump  of  pure  sugar  in  a  good  cup  of  tea."  This 
was  said  with  a  smack  of  the  lips,  which  might  be  expressive 
of  longing  for  such  a  cup.  "But  I  suspect,  sir,"  he  con- 
tinued, "that  this  young  brother  has  given  us  his  course  of 
study  rather  than  his  ordinary  reading.  These  classical 
authors,  I  dare  say,  he  has  studied  in  the  originals,  more  for 
the  sake  of  securing  closer  acquaintance  with  the  original 
languages  of  the  Sacred  Volume  than  for  anything  else.  Am 

right?" 

"  Yes,"  was  the  response  from  the  young  preacher. 

"  f  thought  so.  And  now,  if  I  am  in  order,  I  should 
like  to  ask  how  he  has  managed  to  do  all  this  in  the  course 
of  the  year,  amidst  his  circuit  wanderings  and  so  much  pulpit 
work  ?  Where  has  he  been  able  to  go  through  these  studies? " 

"  In  the  saddle,"  was  the  answer,  "  in  the  fields,  along  the 
seashore,  and,  when  weather  admitted,  in  orchards,  sitting 
up  in  some  high  forked  tree,  so  as  to  be  at  rest  and  have 
my  book  at  command." 

"  Well,  then,  Mr.  Chairman,"  concluded  the  advocate,  "I 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  347 

think  our  young  brother  is  to  be  commended  for  his  e  pur- 
suit of  knowledge  under  difficulties.'  Like  some  others  of 
us,  he  had  no  college  retreat ;  but  he  has  made  one  for 
himself,  as  I  believe  every  man  will  who  is  really  called  of 
God  to  such  work  as  his.  '  Too  much  poetry  ! '  Why, 
what  he  has  read  is  just  enough  to  show  him  what  good 
poetry  is ;  and  you  may  be  sure  that,  having  learnt  to 
enjoy  and  use  the  good,  he  will  never  waste  his  time  and 
thought  on  what  is  poor." 

There  was  a  moment's  waggish  glance  at  the  chair,  and 
the  advocate  sat  down,  throwing  a  look  of  kindness  and 
complacency  on  the  one  for  whom  he  had  pleaded. 

That  advocate  was  our  poetical  satirist,  John  Wesley 
Thomas.  And  never  did  human  face  more  curiously  show 
good-humoured  contention  between  satirical  intellect  and 
generous  heart  than  did  his,  while  addressing  the  "  poet " 
who  complained  of  "too  much  poetry."  Yet  it  might  strike 
one,' while  looking  at  the  satirical  poet  as  he  settled  into 
repose,  and  sat  in  silence  at  the  Synod,  that  there  was  some- 
thing in  his  thoughtful  countenance  at  times  which  betokened 
the  lingering  effects  of  some  experience  in  his  life  which 
answered  to  his  poetic  "  Dream  "  : — 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all  a  dream — 
Methought  I  stood  upon  a  rising  ground, 
And  at  a  little  distance  I  observed 
A  peaceful  lake,  that  lay  outspread  before  me  ; 
The  chilling  breath  of  winter  had  swept  o'er  it, 
Had  stilled  the  gentle  motion  of  its  waves, 
And  changed  its  waters  to  a  rocky  floor. 
Not  long  I  paused,  but  ventured  down  upon  it ; 
Strong  it  appeared  and  beautiful  as  marble  ; 
And,  pleased,  I  wander'd  on  its  polish'd  surface ; 
But,  ah  !  when  least  I  fear'd  or  thought  of  danger, 
It  suddenly  gave  way,  and  I  sunk  down 
Into  the  dark  abyss  that  lurk'd  beneath  ! 
The  rushing  waters  stopp'd  my  feeble  breath, 
And  vainly  struggling  to  emerge — I  woke. 

Was  not  that  lake  an  emblem  of  the  breast 
That  covers  o'er  with  Friendship's  sacred  name 
Its  own  dark  schemes  of  selfish  cruelty  ? 
Such  I  have  met  with  in  my  pilgrimage ; 


34^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  oft,  alas  1  the  trusting  heart  will  find 
That  those  on  whom  its  fond  affections  fix 
Are  likest  to  the  deep  and  frozen  lake — 
Slippery,  and  dark,  and  cold,  and  treacherous. 

The  poetic  powers  of  our  dreamer  appear  to  be  chastened 
at  times.  His  gifts  were  sterling,  and  some  of  them  were 
carefully  cultured.  But  his  imagination  now  and  then  seems 
to  be  timid,  or  to  lack  vigour  and  freshness,  or  to  be,  in  some 
way,  held  in  check.  As  a  translator  he  can  wing  his  way 
by  the  side  of  his  author,  and  is  manifestly  capable  of  appre- 
ciating and  giving  equal  expression  to  what  even  a  Dante 
conceives.  But  his  own  poetry  sometimes  lacks  imaginative 
life.  This  applies  more  especially  to  the  pieces  which  take 
his  favourite  form  of  composition,  that  of  the  sonnet.  This 
is  his  elect  form,  because,  as  he  says,  "being  of  moderate 
length  so  as  to  admit  of  condensation  and  terseness,  it  affords 
an  opportunity  of  presenting  a  vivid  and  striking  representa- 
tion of  some  interesting  scene  or  event."  The  fact  seems 
to  be,  however,  that  in  many  of  his  sonnets  he  has  studied 
condensation  at  the  expense  of  poetic  charm,  and  has  culti- 
vated terseness  until  he  has  become  prosy.  In  such  cases, 
he  has  failed  to  be  either  vivid  or  striking  j  and  the  failure 
has  been  rendered  the  more  certain  in  his  sonnets  from  sacred 
history  by  his  evident  effort  to  keep  reverently  to  the  inspired 
record,  or  to  give  a  literal  rendering  of  the  sacred  text  in  the 
form  of  English  verse.  Such  cases  of  partial  failure,  how- 
ever, do  not  prove  that  our  poet  has  no  real  merit.  If  Milton 
wrote  some  prosy  sonnets,  so  might  he.  His  sonnets  from 
the  Pentateuch  are  not  all  failures.  His  first  is,  perhaps,  his 
best.  It  is  a  powerful  concentration  of  sublime  thought,  and 
in  spirit  and  manner  is  accordant  with  the  passage  on  which 
it  is  founded.  There  is  dim  grandeur,  with  awe-inspiring 
prospects  into  the  infinite ;  and  a  noble,  anthem-like  swell 
of  devout  homage  and  praise.     It  is  "  The  Beginning  '' : — 

"  In  the  beginning  !  " — yea,  this  wondrous  All 

Had  its  commencement! — Oh  !  the  dark  profound 
Which  Thought  surveys,  when  on  that  earliest  bound 
Of  time  she  pauses — like  some  cherub  tall ; 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  349 

Nor  can  the  abyss  that  lies  beyond  appal : 

On  daring-  wing  she  soars  !     Eternity — 

The  illimitable  realm  of  mystery — 
Receives  her;  yet  she  apprehends  no  fall. 
It  is  her  home ;  for  He  inhabits  there 

Who  is  her  Sire  ;  and  in  His  outspread  wings 
She  finds  her  safety.     Lo  !  this  fabric  fair 

He  raised,  created — heaven  and  earth ;  all  things. 
And  they  are  His.     All  nature  claims  His  care, 

And  with  His  Name  in  one  grand  chorus  ring?. 

Tn  his  sonnet  on  "  Sinai,"  also,  he  is  equal  to  his  theme. 
We  have  a  vivid  and  striking  view  of  the  awful  and  mysteri- 
ous solemnities  attendant  on  the  revelation  of  God's  law  to 
Israel ;  and  by  a  graceful  turn  we  are  led  to  begin  our  adora- 
tions at  Sinai,  and  to  close  them  with  peaceful  reliance  on 
the  Cross : — 

On  Sinai's  lofty  steep,  where  Moses  stood, 

The  majesty  of  Israel's  God  he  saw, 

From  whom,  while  he  received  the  fiery  law, 
The  sapphire  pavement  at  His  feet  he  view'd; 
Far  off  remain'd  the  trembling  multitude  ; 

For  from  the  midst  of  darkness  and  thick  cloud 
Flash'd  the  fork'd  lightnings,  peal'd  the  thunders  loud,' 
And  the  deep  trumpet-blast  each  heart  subdued. 
Well  might  they  fear  Thee,  O  Eternal  King  ! 

For  in  Thy  justice  terrible  art  Thou  ! 
To  Thee  our  sacrifice  of  praise  we  bring ; 

Before  Thee  we  present  our  homage  now 
From  Sinai,  where  Thy  fires  terrific  burn, 
To  Sion's  calm,  and  Calvary's  Cross  we  turn. 

One  of  his  sonnets  founded  on  New  Testament  truth  has 
associations  of  its  own.  An  old  friend  of  the  poet's  once 
came  upon  him  in  a  quiet  little  country  parsonage  at 
Helmsley,  in  North-east  Yorkshire.  The  sight  of  one  with 
whom,  for  a  little  while,  he  could  exchange  sympathies,  and 
in  whose  company  he  could  indulge  in  talk  on  his  favourite 
themes,  made  his  face  bright  with  one  of  those  smiles  which, 
over  whatsoever  face  they  pass,  always  appear  to  be  the 
temporal  likeness  of  smiles  with  which  kindred  spirits  will 
first  greet  one  another  in  the  ethereal  state.  Nothing  would 
do  now  but  a  drive  through  some  of  the  choicest  and  most 
suggestive  bits  of  the  surrounding  scenery.      The   gig  was 


3jO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

soon  turned  out — and  such  a  turn  out  !  It  looked  at  first 
sight  as  if  it  must  inevitably  afford  everybody  who  trusted  it 
a  "  turn  out,"  or  a  "turn  over."  The  Helmsley  Methodist 
parsonage  was  furnished  with  kind  hearts,  and  with  hallowed 
genius ;  but  it  certainly  could  not  boast  of  either  groom,  or 
gig-mop,  or  harness-brush,  or  oil-bottle,  or  water  to  waste  in 
improving  outside  surfaces  to-day,  which  were  sure  to  be 
spattered  again  to-morrow.  Whether  the  gig  had  springs 
or  not  cannot  be  certified  ;  but,  doubtless,  the  horse  had 
none. 

At  length  the  travellers  started  with  a  motion  which,  as 
one  of  them  said,  was  in  tune  and  time  with  the  motion  of 
the  horse — poor  thing,  it  was,  as  the  term  is,  "  pin-bound," 
and,  indeed,  was  rather  rickety  on  all  fours.  On  going  down 
hill,  especially,  one  rider,  at  least,  saw  that  they  were  every 
moment  in  danger  of  a  swift  passage  over  the  low  splash- 
board— verily  a  board — either  from  the  beast  finding  his  nose 
too  near  the  ground,  or  from  its  failure  to  keep  itself  from 
sliding  back  on  its  tail.  The  poet  was  the  driver.  But  reins 
to  him  were  scarcely  worth  care,  and  his  whip  served  chiefly 
as  a  kind  of  little  pennon  to  be  waved  to  the  music  of  his 
travelling  talk.  Themes  for  talk  were  abundantly  suggested 
by  the  road,  and  Helmsley  Castle  with  its  surroundings. 
The  boundaries  and  inner  scenes  of  Duncomb  Park  silently 
gave  names  from  the  history  of  English  high-life  and  lite- 
rature. Then  came  reviews  of  earlier  manners,  criticisms 
on  character,  stories  of  distinguished  life,  and  illustrative 
passages  of  poetry  and  prose.  Then,  comparisons  of  English 
classics  with  more  ancient  standards,  and  again,  unfoldings 
of  thought  about  the  holy  beauties  and  grandeurs  of  divinely- 
inspired  books.  It  was  during  that  drive  that  the  one  who 
was  driven  learnt  for  ever  to  think  of  the  driver  as  a  man  of 
wonderfully  deep  and  various  resources.  He  seemed  to  be 
at  home  in  every  circle  of  English  poets,  essayists,  and  wits  -, 
to  have  caught  all  that  was  worth  catching  of  the  thought  and 
spirit  of  earlier  representative  men.  His  reverent  familiarity 
with  God's  Word  was  endlessly  instructive.     Select  passages 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  3^1 

of  all  lengths,  from  all  his  favourite  authors,  seemed  to  be 
kept  for  appropriate  use,  ranged  in  his  memory,  like  books 
in  the  well-arranged  library  of  a  man  who  could  at  any  time, 
even  in  the  dark,  put  his  linger  on  the  volume  he  wants. 

It  was  not  always  easy  to  enjoy  the  full  advantage  of  this 
wayfaring  companionship.  The  driver  appeared  to  be  entirely 
oblivious  of  everything  which  served  to  keep  the  nervous 
sensibilities  of  his  companion  in  tremulous  motion.  Now 
and  then  a  caution  would  suddenly  seem  called  for  5  perhaps 
on  some  stony  steep — 

"  Hold  up  your  reins  !  " 

"All  right! — as  I  was  saying,  Dryden  smartly  hits  the 
character  of  Villiers  of  Buckingham,  who  used  to  make  our 
old  Helmsley  Castle  ring  with  his  revelries — 

"  Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong-, 
Was  everything  by  starts,  and  nothing  long  : 
But  in  the  course  of  one  revealing  moon, 
Was  chymist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon ; 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking, 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking." 

"  Oh  !  Take  care  !  That  was  a  close  shave  !  " 
"  Yes  ! — and  Pope  was  a]  close  shaver,  wasn't  he  ?  With 
what  a  disclosing  sweep  his  razor  went  over  some  pates  ! 
You  ought  to  go  over  to  Kirby-Moorside,  and  see  the  scene 
which  he  has  immortalized  as  that  of  the  gay  duke's  miser- 
able death — 

"  In  the  worst  inn's  worst  room,  with  mat  half  hung, 
The  floors  of  plaster,  and  the  walls  of  dung  ; 

No  wit  to  flatter,  left  of  all  his  store  ; 
No  fool  to  laugh  at,  which  he  valued  more  ; 
There,  victor  of  his  health,  of  fortune,  friends, 
And  fame,  this  lord  of  useless  thousands  ends. 

By-the-by,  did  it  ever  strike  you  that  Samuel  Wesley's 
'  Epistle  Concerning  Poetry '  may  have  given  Pope  the  idea 
of  his  '  Dunciad  ? '  Some  have  thought  that  Byron  caught 
his  notion  from  the  same  'epistle,'  and  worked  it  out  in 
1  English  Bards  and  Scotch  Reviewers.'     But  whatever  may 


352  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

have  been  the  case  between  Wesley  and  Pope,  I  don't  think 
Byron  ever  cared  to  read  Wesley,  or  to  know  anything  about 
him." 

"  He  could  use  a  Wesley,  however,"  it  was  replied,  "when 
he  wanted  him  to  point  a  lance  against  poor  Southey.  You 
remember  when,  in  his  '  Vision  of  Judgment,'  Southey  is 
brought  up  to  the  gate  of  Heaven  as  a  witness  on  the 
question  whether  the  spirit  of  the  late  king  should  be  admitted ; 
and  instead  of  witnessing  for  his  king  he  begins  to  trumpet 
his  own  works  : — 

"  He  had  written  much  blank  verse,  and  blanker  prose, 
And  more  of  both  than  anybody  knows. 


He  had  written  Wesley's  lite  ; — here,  turning  round 

To  Satan,  '  Sir,  I  am  ready  to  write  yours, 
In  two  octavo  volumes,  nicely  bound, 

With  notes  and  preface,  all  that  most  allures 
The  pious  purchaser  ;  and  there's  no  ground 

For  fear,  for  I  can  choose  my  own  reviewers ; 
So  let  me  have  the  proper  documents, 
That  I  may  add  you  to  my  other  saints.' " 

"Yes,  Byron  was  a  dark-spirited  satirist  -,  but  now  let  us 
get  on  to  Rievaulx  Abbey." 

So  they  went  on,  until  the  old  Abbey  was  iu  sight  5  and 
leaving  the  horse  to  be  the  quiet  keeper  of  the  gig,  they 
entered  on  their  researches.  It  was  evident  that  the  old 
brotherhood  of  Rievaulx,  however  false  their  principle  of 
saintship  was,  had  very  properly  kept  an  eye  to  the  beautiful 
in  situation,  to  good  surface  soil,  and  perhaps  to  subsoil  also, 
as  well  as  pleasant  waters  to  beautify,  refresh,  and  supply 
table  delicacies.  The  quietness  of  the  lovely  valley  that 
morning  was  delicious.  Nature  seemed  to  feel  and  rejoice  in 
showing  that,  while  false  human  modes  of  doing  homage  to 
the  Divine  One  might  melt  into  ruin  and  pass  away,  all  her 
sense  of  dependence  remained  fresh,  and  all  her  pure  modes 
of  glorifying  her  Maker  and  Redeemer  were  still  in  harmo- 
nious action.  Her  Father's  smile  was  still  on  her.  As  the 
two  companions  passed  around  the  outer  parts  of  the  ruin, 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  3$$ 

one  called  the  other's  attention  to  what  looked  like  evidence 
of  fire-action  on  the  foundational  masonry ;  and  this,  in  con- 
nection with  the  observed  fact  that  a  curious  conglomerate, 
like  deposits  of  blackish  matter,  cropped  up  here  and  there, 
gave  rise  to  interesting  speculations  as  to  whether  there  were 
not  workable  iron  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  whether  the 
monks  had  been  ironmasters  in  their  time,  and  whether  this 
strange  deposit  which  ran  for  some  distance  at  variable  depths 
were  not  the  remaining  refuse  of  their  fires  and  furnaces. 
Amidst  these  speculations,  however,  they  turned  to  enter  the 
interior  of  the  ruin.  On  coming  to  the  entrance  of  the  choir, 
for  the  nave  was  gone,  they  were  advancing  on  what  was  now 
the  grassy  pavement  of  the  church,  and  were  beginning  to 
speculate  on  the  old  architect's  reasons  for  placing  the  build- 
ing north  and  south  instead  of  east  and  west,  when  their 
steps  were  arrested.  There,  under  fine  old  lancet-lights,  on 
what  seemed  to  be  a  sunken  stone  of  the  once  "high  altar," 
in  a  beautiful  posture  of  repose,  was  a  living  full-grown  lamb ! 
The  sight  was  sufficiently  striking,  and  associations  of 
suggestive  thought  became  very  impressive.  There  stood 
the  poet  and  his  friend  in  silence,  surrounded  by  the  quiet 
beauties  of  that  nature  whose  loveliness  they  had  been 
rejoicing  in,  and  about  whose  stores  of  riches  they  had  been 
raising  questions.  They  were  standing,  too,  amidst  the 
crumbling  memorials  of  a  system  whose  principle  was  false 
both  to  nature  and  to  grace  ;  and  there,  on  the  fallen  altar  of 
that  system,  was  a  gentle,  peaceful,  unblemished  lamb, 
unmoved  at  human  footsteps,  as  if  it  were  intended  to  be  the 
innocent  symbol  of  a  "Lamb  in  the  midst  of  the  throne," 
keeping  His  place,  till  universal  nature  shall  pay  Him 
homage,  and  everything  that  is  not  in  harmony  with  His 
works  and  will  shall  cease  for  ever  to  mar  His  pure  designs. 
Whether  the  thought  which  the  poet  afterwards  expressed  in 
the  form  of  a  sonnet  was  at  that  moment  first  kindled  may 
not  appear  till  the  two  friends  meet  again ;  but  one  thing  is 
certain,  that  when,  after  some  years,  the  poet's  sonnets  were 
read  by  his  friend  for  the  first  time,  one  of  them  was  instantly 

A  A 


354  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

associated  in  the  reader's  mind  with  the  remarkable  coinci- 
dence in  Rievaulx  Abbey.  Nor,  as  he  thinks,  will  that  asso- 
ciation ever  be  dissolved  while  he  lives  to  enjoy  the  poet's 
finely  turned  thought,  and  well  attuned  expression,  in  "The 
Cross  Anticipated." 

He  who  foresaw  the  ruin  of  mankind 

Through  Adam's  fault,  and  thence  redemption  plann'd, 

Adapted  Nature  to  this  purpose  grand, 
From  the  first  dawn  when  light  on  chaos  shined, 
Till  in  the  cosmos  life  and  beauty  join'd. 

He  from  the  world's  foundation  did  ordain 

That  sacrifice,  the  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
That  Mercy  might  with  Justice  be  combined. 
Hence  through  the  mighty  cycles  of  the  past, 

While  worlds  for  lost  but  ransom'd  man  He  built, 
He  laid  up  treasures  on  a  scale  so  vast, 

To  bless,  chastise,  avenge — and  pardon  guilt ! 

Thus,  while  Creation  testifies  our  loss, 
Nature  herself  does  homage  to  the  Cross! 

The  companion  in  travel  to  Rievaulx  Abbey  expresses 
his  wonderment  at  the  poet's  richfulness  of  memory,  espe- 
cially as  to  classic  English  literature.  But  the  readiness,  as 
well  as  fulness,  of  that  memory,  became,  some  time  after- 
wards, the  source  of  intense  amusement  and  pleasurable 
surprise  in  a  scene  very  different  to  that  of  an  old  quiet 
abbey.  It  was  a  scene  in  which  the  leading  figure  should 
be  a  Methodist  district  chairman.  Not  a  poetaster  this 
time — rather  a  proser.  For  Methodism  supposes  every  man 
to  have  his  own  order,  if  not  his  own  place.  Let  it  be  said 
again,  this  chairman  was  not  one  by  any  means  given  to 
fancy  or  feeling,  but  was 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances. 

He  was  not  a  man  for  pictures,  but  was  edifying  on  safe 
settlements  of  ecclesiastical  property.  He  was  one  of  those 
who  could  feed  on  the  skin  of  anybody's  "  Trust  Act,'' 
"  Peto's  Act,"'  or  any  other  Act.  So  that,  as  a  matter  of 
taste,  he  would  know  no  difference  between  a  roast  beef 
dinner  and  one  of  dry  bread.     He  was  great,  therefore,  in 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  355 

routine;  and,  like  a  clock  himself,  he  always  required  every 
other  body  to  go  like  a  pendulum  also.  It  will  be  seen  at 
once  that  he  acted  quite  in  character  during  a  session  of  his 
provincial  presbytery  when,  just  before  dinner,  he  seriously 
reflected  upon  the  unpunctual  ways  of  some  of  his  young 
clergy,  and  told  them  that  if,  after  dinner,  there  were  any 
delinquents,  he  should  call  them  to  an  explanation  before 
the  meeting.  Dinner-time  came  ;  dinner-time  passed  ;  and 
now  the  clock  called  the  session  to  be  re-opened.  But,  lo  ! 
the  chair  was  vacant !  There  was  not  even  a  ghost  to  take 
the  seat  of  honour  in  the  absence  of  flesh  and  blood.  The 
clock  ticked,  and  the  first  quarter  chimed,  but  the  punctual 
chairman  was  not  in  his  place.  An  hour  passed ;  and  then 
there  was  an  appearance,  a  candid  confession,  and  an  apology. 
His  after-dinner  nap  had  unhappily  settled  too  heavily  on  his 
wiry  brain,  and  when  he  awoke,  he  awoke  to  a  deep  sense  of 
something  like  retribution  for  his  intended  severity  on  late 
comers.     It  was  a  new  scene  in  "Measure  for  Measure." 

Haste  still  pays  haste,  and  leisure  answers  leisure  ; 
Like  doth  quit  like,  and  measure  still  for  measure. 

The  subdued  chairman  never  thought  it  needful  to  ask  what 
scenes  had  been  acted  during  his  recess.  Had  he  inquired, 
how  could  he  have  borne  the  rehearsal  ?  It  had  been,  indeed, 
a  new  performance,  illustrative  of  "As  You  Like  It."  In 
the  presence  of  the  empty  chair,  for  a  little  while,  the 
younger  clergy,  who  had  been  threatened  with  castigation, 
were  disposed  to  enjoy  a  session  of  their  own  devising  ;  but 
at  the  nick  of  time  John  Wesley  Thomas — always  as  ready 
to  defend  young  men  from  themselves  as  from  those  who 
manage  to  outlive  the  genuine  naturalness  of  their  life — rose 
to  address  the  chairless  meeting  ;  and,  to  show  himself  one 
with  the  youngest,  and  to  invite  them  to  take  their  share  in 
the  interlude,  he  called  on  them  to  choose  one  out  of  ten  or 
twelve  poets  whom  he  named,  and  he  would  undertake  to 
rehearse  from  that  one  as  long  as  the  chairman  happened  to 
be  missing,  or  to  take  any  other  poet  when  they  wished  for  a 


3$6  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

change.  He  had  been  fulfilling  his  promise,  amidst  occa- 
sional thunders  of  applause,  for  the  greater  part  of  an  hour, 
when  the  opening  of  a  door  at  the  back  part  of  the  room 
gave  token  of  the  chairman's  arrival.  It  was  a  triumph  of 
memory  on  the  poet's  part,  but  a  triumph,  too,  of  tact,  taste, 
and  brotherly  kindness.  Yes,  our  poet  could  be  a  boy 
among  boys,  though  the  outbreaks  of  his  boyishness  might 
sometimes  be  awkward,  like  that  of  Johnson  when  he 
turned  out  to  please  the  young  wits  by  joining  in  their 
morning  frolic j  yet  it  was  genuine  good-natured  sprightli- 
ness. 

Our  poet  could  be  tender,  too,  tender  as  a  woman. 
Otherwise  we  should  never  have  felt  the  gentle  plaintiveness, 
the  delicate  pathos,  and  the  tremulous  lingering  of  sorrowful 
fondness  which  find  utterance  in  his  "  Lament  of  Mary 
Queen  of  Scots  on  leaving  France": — 

She  sate  upon  the  vessel's  deck,  her  tears  were  falling  fast, 
While  tow'rds  the  fading  coast  of  France  her  lingering  looks  were  cast, 
But  beauty  shone  through  her  distress,  like  sunbeams  thro'  a  cloud, 
And  musical  her  accents  were,  while  thus  she  'plain'd  aloud: 

"  Farewell,  my  France,  a  long  farewell ! — I  ne'er  shall  see  thee  more  ! 

My  hopes  of  earthly  happiness  have  perished  on  thy  shore ! 

I  lov'd  thee,  and  I  love  thee  still — yea,  more  than  I  can  tell — 

And  now  my  bursting  heart  exclaims,  '  Farewell,  my  France,  farewell!' 

"  I  see  thy  shores  receding  fast — they  fade  upon  my  sight, 
And  soon  above  them  will  be  spread  the  closing  shades  of  night. 
To-morrow,  when  the  morning  dawns,  I  shall  be  faraway; 
But  1  will  ever  think  on  thee,  and  for  thy  welfare  pray. 

"  My  husband's  ashes  rest  with  thee — a  sad  but  precious  trust — 
And  there  my  sainted  mother  lies — oh,  sacred  is  thy  dust ! — 
Though  Scotland  calls  me  to  her  crown,  yet,  by  a  mightier  spell, 
My  thoughts,  my  hopes,  my  all,  are  thine — Farewell,  my  France,  farewell! 

Whatever  he  may  have  thought  of  Mary's  cause  or  character 
as  queen,  he  understood  her  feelings  as  a  woman,  and  realised 
them  so  as  to  breathe  them  into  verses  which  make  the 
reader's  feelings  vibrate  at  their  touch.  His  tenderness  was 
not  that  of  mere  sentiment ;  it  belonged  to  a  sound  heart  of 
love.  His  poetic  English  rendering  of  Solomon's  Song  is 
evidently  a  work  of  love,  and  the  form  into  which  he  throws 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  2>S1 

the  sacred  Canticles  recommends  itself  by  the  light  which  it 
sheds  on  the  character  and  design  of  the  Divine  effusion. 
He  gives  it  as  "The  Bridal  Week:  a  Hebrew  Eclogue." 
"  The  action  occupies  the  six  days  of  the  week.  The  first 
five  are  preparatory,  and  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth  (Friday 
morning)  the  marriage  ceremony  and  procession  take  place." 
The  actors  and  speakers  throughout  are  the  bride,  the  bride- 
groom, and  chorus  of  virgins.  On  the  whole,  the  poet  is 
successful  in  the  music  of  his  English  metrical  version ; 
sometimes  happily  so,  as  when  the  tenderness  and  purity 
of  conjugal  affection  find  expression  in  the  intercourse  of  the 
married  pair  during  the  wedding  procession.  The  chorus  of 
virgins  meet  them  and  sing  : — 

Chorus.  What  fair  one  from  the  desert  do  we  meet, 
With  her  beloved  in  communion  sweet  ? 

Bridegroom.  Beneath  the  citron-tree  I  wooed  thee ;  there 
I  from  thy  mother's  hand  received  my  fair : 
And  she  that  bare  her  did  that  hour  preside 
O'er  nuptial  rites,  and  plighted  thee  my  bride. 

Bride.  Oh  !  place  me  as  a  seal  upon  thy  heart, 
And  on  thy  arm,  that  we  no  more  may  pait : 
For  love  is  strong  as  death,  and  jealous  fear 
More  unrelenting  than  the  sepulchre : 
Like  blazing  fires,  its  shafts  consume  the  frame, 
Or  like  the  all-dreaded  lightning's  vengeful  flame. 

Bridegroom.  To  quench  our  love  not  torrents  can  avail ; 
To  o'erwhelm  it  deluges  would  fail : 
Lands,  houses,  gold,  all,  all  would  worthless  prove ; 
No  match,  no  substitute  for  priceless  love. 

This  is  effectively  rendered  by  one  whose  estimate  of 
married  love  was  pure  and  high.  But  the  translator  in 
his  "Vale  of  Siddim  "  puts  his  own  heart's  conceptor  of 
pure  love,  conjugal  love  in  particular,  into  the  lips  of  an 
angel.  The  utterance  is  worthy  of  an  angel's  lips,  but 
most  beautiful  as  the  outflow  of  a  truly  loving  human 
heart : — 

True  love  is  light  from  heaven, 

Stainless  and  pure;  a  spark  immortal  given  ; 

A  ray  from  the  eternal  sun,  its  source, 

Thither  to  raise  the  soul.     In  Heaven  its  force 

Unites  the  blessed  in  communion  sweet, 

And  perfect  joy,  and  harmony  complete. 


3j8  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

On  earth,  where'er  it  takes  its  hallowed  stand, 

It  joins  two  hearts  in  an  eternal  band ; 

Waves  its  bright  wings,  and  lights  its  golden  lamp, 

"With  flame  which  neither  age  nor  death  can  damp. 

To  mortal  and  immortal  beings,  this 

Is  life's  best  life:  without  it  even  bliss 

Could  never  satisfy  ;  it  is  a  dower 

Fit  for  the  sons  of  God. 

When  the  poet's  warm  heart  kindles  into  devotion,  and 
his  reverent  spirit  hymns  it  with  saints  before  the  Flood, 
or  patriarchal  worshippers,  or  mediaeval  choirs,  his  genius 
is  evidently  happy  in  its  consecration.  His  hymns  are 
better  than  most  of  his  sonnets.  In  the  "  Hymn  of  Para- 
dise" there  is  a  sprightly,  buoyant  simplicity  which  is 
finely  suited  to  primitive  innocence,  intelligence,  and  recti- 
tude : — 

Unbounded  source  of  joy! 
To  Thee  our  grateful  Sabbath  hymn  we  raise ; 
To  Thee  for  all  Thy  gifts,  let  songs  of  praise 
Our  lips  employ. 

We  see  Thee  not,  but  know 
Thy  voice  of  love,  that  stirs  the  morning  air ; 
To  us  Thy  messages  the  angels  bear 

Who  come  and  go. 

Thy  wrorks  declare  Thy  might : 
The  glorious  sun,  that  climbs  the  steep  of  heaven, 
Shines  in  Thy  praise,  with  beams  which  Thou  hast  given, 

Intensely  bright. 

Yon  azure  sky  serene, 
Lofty  and  vast,  was  by  Thy  hand  outspread  : 
Thine  are  the  trees  which  wave  above  our  head 

Their  branches  green. 

For  these  delightful  bowers, 
For  life  and  all  its  blessings,  we  this  day 
On  Thy  turf  altar  our  thank-offerings  lay, — 

These  fruits  and  flowers. 

With  one  restraint — but  one — 
All  Paradise  is  ours,  with  what  the  tree 
Of  life  portends,  an  immortality, 

On  earth  begun  ! 

Hail,  universal  Lord  ! 
Whom  all  Thy  works  in  earth  and  heaven  proclaim, 
By  us  for  evermore  Thy  glorious  name 

Shall  be  adored! 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  3^9 

But  with  all  Wesley  Thomas's  tenderness  and  kind- 
heartedness,  and  genial  warmth  of  love  for  all  beauty  and 
truth,  he  could  be  as  hard  as  steel  against  the  advances  of 
error  and  mischief,  and  as  unsparing  as  lightning  against 
the  pretensions  of  falsehood  and  vice.  He  had  great  logical 
ability  and  ready  aptitude  of  expression.  He  was  keen  and 
skilful;  knew  when  to  pierce  and  when  to  crush.  He 
could  wing  his  arguments  with  satire,  and,  when  it  was 
deserved,  he  could  stand  aloof  to  watch  his  victim  under 
the  effects  of  a  castigation,  with  a  sarcasm  sitting  on  his 
lip  that  might  be  called  grim.  There  was  no  malice  ;  and 
if  there  were  bitterness,  it  was  against  folly  or  hypocrisy  or 
pretentious  error.  His  birthplace  seems  to  have  afforded  the 
circumstances  which  first  called  his  satirical  powers  into 
play.  Indeed,  he  owed  a  great  deal  to  his  native  city  and 
its  surroundings. 

He  began  his  life  in  old  Exeter,  on  August  4th,  1798. 
He  came  of  a  good  stock — that  is,  of  a  family  distinguished 
by  all  who  knew  them  best,  for  good  sense,  fixed  principle, 
and  steady  habits,  industry,  order,  mental  vigour,  kind  dis- 
positions, strong  attachment  to  evangelical  truth,  and  devout 
cultivation  of  spiritual  piety.  Their  love  for  Methodism  is 
indicated  in  the  name  given  to  their  son,  John  Wesley. 
There  were  very  few  educational  advantages  for  John.  But 
the  few  were  made  the  best  of  3  so  that,  in  the  end,  the 
mind  of  our  poet  became  so  self -disciplined,  and  so  largely 
stored  with  certain  and  various  knowledge,  that  he  found  an 
eminent  place  among  those  who  have  learnt  to  know  much 
and  to  be  truly  wise  in  making  the  best  of  their  learning. 
But  John's  genius  and  taste  found  a  school  among  the 
natural  grandeurs  and  beauties  which  met  his  earliest  steps, 
as  he  wandered  among  the  hills,  or  on  the  lovely  banks  of 
the  Exe.  And  nearer  at  home  would  be  the  wonders  of  the 
old  storied  city.  But  there  were  also  things  not  beautiful, 
not  true,  not  in  harmony  3  and  these,  perhaps,  gave  the  first 
exciting  touches  to  the  poet's  keen  sense  of  ridiculous  incon- 
sistency 5  and  awakened  the  satiric  power  which  lived  in  close 


360  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

association  with  the  music  of  his  soul.     In  his  "War  of  the 

Surplice,"  issued  under  the  name  of  "  Anti-Empiricus,"  he 

lashes   the    late    Bishop    of    Exon    and    his    young    clerical 

devotees  for  their    pertinacious    efforts    to    restore    Romish 

doctrines  and  ceremonials  in  the  Church,  in  opposition  to  the 

better  clergy  and  people  of  the  city  and  diocese.     The  poem 

is  happily  in    Hudibrastic    vein.      Butler's  old  anti-Puritan 

battery  is  smartly  taken,  and  cleverly  turned,  with  sweeping 

effect,  upon  the  Laudites  themselves.     The  poet's  sketch  of 

the  young  priest   whose  doings  opened   the  "  War  of   the 

Surplice"  is  characteristic: — 

It  was  at  Oxford,  as  I  said, 
That  our  young-  pastor  had  been  bred  ; 
And  therefore  much,  of  course,  must  know, 
Although  thrice  "  pluck'd  "  at  "  little  go." 
In  Greek  and  Latin  so  proficient, 

His  mother  tongue  he  valued  not ; 
In  mathematics  not  deficient, 

He  o'er  the  "  bridge  of  asses  "  got. 
Profound  in  antiquarian  lore, 
And  in  the  fathers — quite  a  bore. 
The  dullest  things  they  ever  wrote, 
The  most  was  he  inclined  to  quote; 
And  gave  them  credence  unrestricted, 
Even  when  themselves  they  contradicted. 
In  metaphysics  an  adept, 

His  thoughts  he  ranged  and  stored  away  ■ 
Like  moonbeams  in  a  phial  kept, 

To  be  produced  some  other  day. 
A  body,  he'd  convince  each  dunce, 
Might  be  in  heaven  and  earth  at  once ; 
And  rotten  wood  and  dead  bones  still 
Be  multiplied  by  miracle. 
But  his  theology  was  held 
At  that  in  which  he  most  excell'd. 

Then  comes  the  young  Oxonian's  first  appearance,  affording 

a  mark  for  keen  satirical  play  : — 

Now,  through  the  aisle  with  solemn  pace, 
Preceded  by  a  silver  mace, 
He  moves  ;  and  now  the  pulpit  reaches, 
"Where,  in  white  surplice  clad,  he  preaches. 
These  symbols  speak  to  people's  eyes, 
And  in  them  much  of  meaning  lies. 
The  silver  mace,  the  church's  dower 
Betokens,  both  of  wealth  and  power — 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  3<5l 

The  rod  of  rule ! — the  season  gone 
"When  gold  and  silver  she  had  none ! 
And  the  white  surplice,  flowing  free, 
May  hide  a  world  of  mystery. 
The  stains  of  sin  it  doth  not  wipe, 
Yet  covers  :  this  "  convenient"  type 
Of  freedom  and  of  holiness 
Our  clergy  owe  to  good  "  Queen  Bess  "; 
Who  also  was,  as  history  notes, 
The  inventress  of  hoop'd  petticoats. 

The  sermon  follows — a  parody,  and  yet  to  the  life  . — 

The  reverend  gentleman  his  text 

And  sermon  thus  pronounces  next : 

"  In  chapter  second,  fifteenth  verse, 

First  Thessalonians — short  and  terse — 

These  words  we  have  :  '  Hold  the  traditions.' 

My  brethren,  there  are  two  positions 

With  which  I  preface  my  discourse, 

And  hope  you  will  perceive  their  force. 

The  first  of  these  shall  be  a  caution 

Against  that  most  erroneous  notion, 

Which  gives  the  right  to  all  the  nation 

Of  scriptural  interpretation, 

And  thus  makes  every  man  a  Pope ; 

Which  you  don't  wish  to  be,  I  hope. 

The  right  to  interpret  and  to  judge, 

By  individuals,  is  a  fudge. 

Much  evil  is  occasioned  by  it ; 

And  I  as  strenuously  deny  it — 

As  Frenchmen  do  the  'right  of  search'; 

It  is  the  province  of  'The  Church.' 


What  I've  to  offer  on  '  Traditions,' 

Will  be  arranged  in  three  divisions. 

In  other  words,  I  claim  attention 

To  three  things  which  I  have  to  mention  : 

The  first  is  Clerical  Authority. 

The  next  in  order  of  progression 

Is  Apostolical  Succession. 

The  churches  by  the  apostles  planted, 

To  bishops,  as  their  heirs,  were  granted ; 

The  authority  the  former  wielded 

Has  to  the  latter  been  convey'd  ; 
The  obedience  which  to  them  was  yielded 

Must  be  to  priests  and  bishops  paid. 
By  spiritual  descent  they  gain 
This  right,  through  an  unbroken  chain ; 


362  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  they  can  trace  it,  one  and  all, 
Up  to  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul. 
However  wicked  or  impure, 
They  can  incur  no  forfeiture, 
The  channel  of  this  gift  is  stain'd — 

Yea,  in  some  places  foul  and  squalid  ; 
But  were  the  devil  himself  ordain'd, 

His  ministrations  would  be  valid. 
And  some,  I  own,  have  worn  the  mitre, 
Whose  conduct  has  not  been  much  brighter. 
'Tis  only  from  the  bishop's  hands 
The  priest  who  by  the  altar  stands 
Could  gain  the  right  to  his  high  function, 
Or  have  the  apostolic  unction. 
However  holy  they  may  be 
Who  exercise  the  ministry, 
If  not  in  this  succession,  they 
Can  only  lead  mankind  astray; 
They're  sacrilegious  thieves,  or  worse, 
Whom  Christian  rulers  should  coerce  j 
And  them  hereafter  doth  await 
Abiram's,  Dathan's,  Korah's  fate. 

Thirdly,  the  Sacraments. 


These  are  essential  to  salvation 
For  all  mankind,  in  every  station. 
With  these  the  Christian  Church  provides 
Five  '  Sacramental  rites '  besides. 
First,  for  the  young  there's  Confirmation'; 
Then  Penance,  for  our  souls'  purgation  ; 
Unction,  for  people  in  extremis, 

To  consummate  all  penance  past ; 
Orders,  of  which  the  grace  we  deem  is 

Official.     Matrimony 's  last. 

And  now,  I  offer,  in  conclusion, 

A  few  remarks  on  Absolution. 

Each  real  penitent  should  seek, 

Not  seldomer  than  once  a  week, 

A  private  audience  with  his  priest, 

To  whom  his  sins  should  be  confess'd. 

By  whom  the  absolution  wanted 

In  proper  season  will  be  granted. 

He  stands  between  your  souls  and  heaven, 

And  pardons  by  his  hands  are  given ; 

As  I  have  heard  our  bishop  say 

Sometimes,  on  Visitation  day, 

'  Whose  sins  ye  shall  remit — retain — 

They  are  forgiven  or  bound  again.' 

Thus  priests  of  heaven  possess  the  keys, 

To  shut  or  open  as  they  please.'' 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  $63 

This  sermon,  like  all  those  which  it  represents,  is  supposed 
to  be  read  in  some  ten  minutes,  on  the  Church  principle,  that — 
The  Sermon  's  part  of  the  Communion. 

Those  who  have  been  bracing  up  their  spirits  on  the 
waters  of  the  Scotch  lakes,  and  have  brought  their  imagina- 
tions into  full  communion  with  wild  hills,  weird  glens,  and 
haunted  giant  oaks  of  the  old  Caledonian  forest,  and  would 
now  bring  themselves  by  a  pleasant  process  of  transition  to 
be  tenderly  sensitive  to  the  first  soft  appeals  of  beauty  from 
the  English  lakes,  should  leave  the  northern  train  at  Penrith 
■and  dream  a  little  under  the  lone  fragment  of  its  old  castle 
till  the  coach  starts  for  Ulswater  and  Ambleside.  Once 
fairly  seated  and  off,  the  exquisite  natural  interweavings  of 
the  soft  and  the  sublime  will  soon  disclose  themselves.  Not 
far,  however,  out  of  Penrith,  before  the  waters  of  the  Eamont 
begin  to  show  their  filial  connection  with  the  deep  blue 
waters  of  the  lake,  and  before  the  horses  have  fairly  turned 
their  heads  from  the  green  suburbs  of  Penrith,  the  coach- 
man, with  a  significant  nod  towards  the  left,  will  say, — 
at  least,  the  coachman  used  to  say, — "  The  grounds  of 
Brougham  Castle!"  There  is  no  time  now  to  see  where 
the  castle  is,  or  what  it  is  like,  but  there,  it  must  be  taken 
for  granted,  it  is,  behind  the  leafage  of  the  woods,  and  on 
the  bank  of  the  little  river  which  runs  to  lose  itself  in  the 
waters  of  the  Eden.  Whatever  the  castle  may  be  thought 
of,  the  grounds  are  worthy  of  more  leisurely  observation,  on 
one  account  at  least. 

Somewhere  about  fifteen  years  ago  (i860)  two  figures 
might  be  seen  at  times,  in  favourable  weather,  pacing  quietly 
up  and  down  on  the  grounds  near  the  castle.  Both  were 
remarkable,  each  in  his  own  way.  One  of  them  could  not  be 
seen  without  the  thought  arising,  "Who  is  he?"  and  the 
other,  in  passing,  might  move  a  smile  or  excite  curiosity. 
As  to  one,  "  I  saw  him  once,"  said  a  gentleman,  "coming 
out  of  the  train,  and  I  said  to  myself,  '  That  must  be  he  5 ' 
nobody  could  mistake  that  outline  of  face,  that  inquiring 
and  commanding  eye,   that  seemed  to  be  so  used  to  look 


364  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

through  all  scenes  of  human  life,  to  range  all  nature,  and  to 
expatiate  through  all  regions  of  thought."  The  other,  in 
bearing,  was  not  so  much  at  ease ;  indeed,  there  was  an 
indefinable  awkwardness  and  carelessness  of  appearance 
which  sent  the  eye  to  his  face  and  head  for  information; 
and  then  he  appeared  so  intent  upon  something  beyond 
your  sight,  and  so  evidently  engaged  in  solving  some  problem, 
or  pushing  his  way  somewhere  into  the  unseen,  that  it  might 
be  a  question  which  of  these  two  passing  figures  was  the 
more  noticeable.  There  was  occasionally  something  so 
irresistibly  comical  about  the  nasal  action  of  the  one,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  something  in  the  play  of  the  other's  lips 
so  powerful,  by  turns,  to  tickle  or  make  you  cautious,  that 
to  watch  them  was  to  be  kept  oscillating  amidst  unsatis- 
factory speculations  and  queries.  To  see  them  together, 
both  in  the  full  play  of  their  distinctive  peculiarities,  was 
never  to  forget  the  pair.  One  was  no  other  than  Lord 
Brougham  himself;  the  other  was  the  Methodist  preacher, 
John  Wesley  Thomas. 

There  was  between  these  two  the  mutual  recognition  of 
mental  power,  various  knowledge,  and  literary  taste;  and 
who  shall  say  that  Lord  Brougham  did  not  appreciate  the 
association  of  these  in  John  Wesley  Thomas  with  simple 
and  warm  attachment  to  "the  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus"?  But 
it  was  as  the  translator  of  Dante  that  the  poet's  way  was 
opened  to  occasional  companionship  with  the  literary  peer. 
Both  loved  Dante;  and  over  his  pages  both  geniuses  could 
commune.  The  man  who  had  caught  so  much  of  the  spirit 
and  manner  of  the  great  Italian,  and  who,  in  the  opinion  of 
leading  critics,  had  proved  himself  equal  to  the  work  of 
giving  all  English  readers  the  privilege  of  enjoying  the 
"Divina  Comedia,"  even  in  its  author's  own  rhythmical 
style,  might  be  received  into  friendly  chat  with  an  English 
peer,  plain  Methodist  preacher  though  he  was.  According  to 
some  peerage  laws,  the  two  could  have  nothing  in  common; 
but  by  right  of  genius  and  mental  rank,  they  were  peer  with 
peer  on  Brougham  Castle  grounds. 


A    POETICAL    SATIRIST.  36$ 

A  traveller  who  happened  to  be  in  the  North  of  England 
at  the  time  when  people  talked  about  the  Methodist  preacher's 
friendly  intercourse  with  the   old   Chancellor  tells  how   he 
met  with  the  poet  on  the  platform  at  a  public  meeting  in 
Penrith.     They  sat  close  to   each  other,   and  the  stranger 
describes  his  own  impression'as  to  the  translator's  impractical, 
abstracted  appearance.     In  the  course  of  the  meeting,  just  in 
the  middle  of  a  speech  from  a  gentleman  who  was  interested 
in  the  question  before  the  audience,  the  absent-looking  poet 
drew  a  note-book  from  his  pocket,  and,  producing  a  pencil, 
proceeded  to  make  jottings.     The  first  thought  was,  that  he 
had  not  been  so  withdrawn  from  the  business  of  the  meeting 
as  he  had  seemed  to  be ;  that  he  had,  after  all,  been  taking  a 
personal  interest  in  it,  and  was  now  taking  notes  of  what  the 
present   speaker  was  saying  by  way  of  preparing  to  make 
some  remarks  himself ;  though  it  did  appear  remarkable  that 
he  should  find  anything  worth  noting  from  the  lips  that  just 
then  were   in   rather  wordy   exercise.     Still,  the   note-taker 
scribbled   on,   until  happening  to  cast   a  side  glance  at  his 
paper,   without  designing  improperly  to  overlook  him,  the 
traveller  was  surprised,  amused,  and  intensely  interested  to 
see  that  the  poet  was  rendering  a  passage  from  Dante  into 
English.     He  was,  in  fact,  relieving  his  own  weariness,  and 
improving  the  time  by  pursuing  his  task  of  translating  the 
last  part  of  his  great  work,  "II   Paradise"      He  had   been 
all  his  lifetime  "sowing  beside  all  waters,"  and  he  was  at  it 
still.     He  lived  to  complete  his  purpose.     "The  Trilogy" 
was  before  the  world ;    and  the    now   old,  but  successful, 
Methodist  poet  had  his  crown   of  honour  from   those  who 
would  willingly  ignore  his  claims  as  a  Methodist  preacher, 
but   could    not    lose    the   pleasure   of  doing  honour  to  the 
translator's  genius,  learning,  and  taste. 

To  render  into  his  native  tongue  the  great  Italian's  vision 
of  the  river  "  proceeding  out  of  the  throne  of  God  and  the 
Lamb  "  was  doubtless  one  of  Mr.  Thomas's  last  works  of 
love,  and  like  all  works  done  from  pure  love,  it  has  its  own 
living  beauty  : — 


366  THE    POETS     OF    METHODISM. 

And  light  I  saw  like  to  a  river  flowing; 

Ruddy  with  lightnings,  'twixt  two  banks  it  roll'd, 

Deck'd  by  the  stream  whose  wondrous  flowers  were  blowing, 
From  the  stream  issued  sparkles  manifold, 

Which  'midst  the  flowers  on  each  side  radiate, 

Like  rubies  in  a  setting  form'd  of  gold. 
With  odours  then  as  if  inebriate, 

They  sunk  again  into  the  wondrous  gurge, 

And  as  they  entered,  others  issued  straight, 
"  The  high  desires  which  now  inflame  and  urge 

To  know  what  thou  dost  see,  please  me  the  more, 

The  more  they  make  thy  bosom  swell  and  surge ; 
But  of  this  water  thou  must  drink,  before 

In  thee  can  be  allayed  such  thirst  intense." 

So  spake  mine  eyes'  fair  sun  ;  and  furthermore 
Added,  "  The  stream  and  topazes  which  thence 

Emerge  re-entering,  and  the  smiling  flowers, 

Are  shadowy  prefaces  of  their  true  sense. 
Not  that  these  things  yet  lack  the  ripening  houn; ; 

But,  that  thy  sight  to  objects  so  sublime 

Soars  not,  is  through  thy  own  defective  powers." 
Not  swifter  does  the  infant  in  life's  prime 

Rush  to  the  swelling  breast,  if  its  awaking 

Has  been  delayed  beyond  its  usual  time, 
Than  to  the  stream  I  turn'd,  in  hope  of  making 

Mine  eyes  more  perfect  mirrors,  and  stoop'd  there 

To  quaff  the  wave,  thence  new  perception  taking. 
And  as  the  fringes  of  mine  eyelids  were 

Drinking  thereof,  the  river  seem'd  to  me 

From  lengthened  shape  to  have  grown  circular. 
Then,  like  those  persons  whom  in  masks  we  see, 

Who,  if  their  borrow'd  show  be  laid  aside, 

Quite  other  than  at  first  will  seem  to  be ; 
Even  so  that  festal  joy  was  amplified  ; 

The  flowers  and  sparkles  glow'd  writh  brighter  sheen, 

So  that  both  courts  of  Heaven  I  now  descried. 
Splendour  of  God  !  Thou  by  whose  light  I've  seen 

The  lofty  triumph  of  the  Kingdom  true, 

Give  me  the  virtue  to  describe  that  scene. 
There  is  in  Heaven  a  light  which  brings  to  view 

Him  who  creates  to  that  created  one 

Who  doth  in  Him  alone  his  peace  pursue. 

The  happy  translator  of  this  vision  was  soon  on  the  banks 
of  that  very  river.  A  few  hours  before  he  saw  and  drank 
for  himself,  he  was  told  of  his  nearness  to  life,  and  gave, 
like  a  true  Christian  poet,  his  last  mortal  utterance — 

Hope  springs  eternal  in  the  human  breast ! 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A.    PROPHET.  ^6"] 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET. 

Should  the  well-meant  songs  I  leave  behind 
With  Jesus'  lovers  an  acceptance  find, 
'Twill  heighten  even  the  joys  of  Heaven,  to  know 
That  in  my  verse  the  saints  hymn  God  below. 


N  a  snug  old-fashioned  parlour,  with  its  walls  taste- 
fully hung  with  portraits,  all  suggestive  of  good 
and  happy  memories,  there  sat  a  few  rather  book- 
ish folks,  pleasantly  interchanging  thoughts  about 
past  times.  It  was  far  away  from  the  great 
world,  with  nothing  to  break  the  agreeable  quiet- 
ness but  the  chirping  of  sparrows  in  a  Spanish  laurel-tree 
which  partly  shaded  the  windows,  leaving  space  enough  for 
the  eye  to  range  over  the  garden  borders,  decked  with  lilies 
of  the  valley.  A  volume  of  the  Wesleys'  poetical  works  on 
the  table  gave  rise  to  the  question  of  Methodist  poets  and 
poetry.     One  of  the  company  said — 

"  I  was  once  in  the  studio  of  an  eminent  artist  in  London, 
in  full  enjoyment  of  chat,  while  the  painter  pursued  his  work 
on  the  canvas.  Something  in  the  conversation  led  him,  by- 
and-by,  to  drop  his  pencil  and  pallet,  and  turning  to  a  large 
portfolio,  he  drew  out  a  proof  engraving  of  a  portrait  which 
he  had  successfully  finished. 

*  '  Have  you  seen  this  ? '  said  he,  resting  the  sheet  on  an 
easel. 

"'No,  not  before  now,'  I  replied.  f  How  beautiful! 
One  could  look  on  that  face  for  ever  !  And  how  like  the 
man  !  ' 


368  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

" '  Well,  then,  please  accept  one  ;  you  may  like  to  renew 
the  pleasure  of  looking  at  it.' 

"It  was  the  portrait  of  the  Rev.  W.  M.  Bunting — I  need 
not  say,  the  eldest  son  of  Dr.  Jabez  Bunting.  There  the 
likeness  now  hangs.  It  is  a  favourite  companion  of  mine. 
Silent  it  is,  in  a  sense,  but  it  has  charming  powers  of  response 
to  my  soul  while  I  am  sitting  here,  or  pacing  the  room  some- 
times, in  order  to  drive  off  disagreeable  thoughts  by  stirring 
up  pleasant  ones.  That  picture  recalls  the  lovable  man's 
image.  He  seems  often  to  live  before  me  again.  There  are 
not  all  the  tokens  of  suffering  and  careful  thought  which 
marked  his  brow  in  later  years.  Nevertheless,  the  artist 
has  given  as  much  of  his  life  and  character  in  that  face  and 
figure  as  could  be  put  into  a  painting.  What  a  biographical 
gem  is  that  sketch  by  his  brother,  Thomas  Percival  Bunting  ! 
I  wish,  among  the  multitude  who  try  their  pens  at  biography, 
a  few,  at  least,  would  study  this  model — its  condensaticn  of 
life,  its  beautiful  polish,  its  brotherly  tenderness,  its  faithful- 
ness, and  its  reverent  feeling. 

"  We  were  talking  about  the  Poets  of  Methodism  •  W.  M. 
Bunting  was  one.  He  was  born  a  poet — born  with  music 
in  himself ;  and,  I  was  going  to  say,  born  a  preacher.  At 
all  events,  there  seems  to  have  been  a  Divine  chrism  on  the 
child,  made  up  of  the  mingled  virtues  of  poetry,  music,  and 
pulpit  power.  It  may  have  been  in  answer  to  his  father's 
prayer,  for  when  the  father  was  told  that  a  son  was  born  unto 
him,  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed  that  if  it  were  God's 
will,  the  boy  might  become  a  Methodist  preacher.  Or  it 
may  have  been  in  response  to  his  mother's  devout  wish  ;  for 
it  might  have  been  said,  '  She  spake  in  her  heart ;  only  her 
lips  moved,  but  her  voice  was  not  heard.'  That  boy 
inherited  much  from  his  parents,  and  owed  a  great  deal  to 
home  training.  He  grew  up  in  a  house  '  where  religion 
held  strict  rule,  and  where  the  ways  of  religion  were 
pleasant ; '  a  thoroughly  Methodist  home — Methodist  after 
the  earlier,  earnest,  and  great-hearted  type.  The  mother's 
character  and  influence  were  most  sacred.     What  a  beautiful 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  369 

home-scene  one  of  the  family  allows  us  to  look  at :  '  Our 
mother  taught  her  Sunday-school  at  home.  .  .  .  She  taught 
us  very  seriously  j  but  there  was  an  air  of  lightsomeness,  and 
a  tone  of  freedom,  and  almost  gaiety,  which  made  us  natural 
and  sincere.  She  sang  us  into  song  ;  and  my  brother's  quick 
ear  and  fine  taste  for  music  (one  great  solace  of  his  suffering 
life)  were  first  wakened  by  the  charm  of  her  voice ;  whilst 
his  fingers  strayed  wildly  over  the  keys  of  the  old  family 
piano  before  they  could  firmly  hold  his  porridge-spoon — 
strayed  wildly  at  first,  but  soon,  self-taught,  won  the  wander- 
ing sounds  into  harmony.  And  so  the  accustomed  hymns, 
with  their  accustomed  tunes — and  there  was  the  sympathy 
and  sanctity  of  marriage  between  them — became  sermons  to 
us,  as  the  melody  ran  '  very  swiftly,'  '  a  pure  river  of  water  of 
life,'  or  lingered,  laden  with  thoughts  which  would  not 
hurry.'  " 

Thus  tuned  for  after  life,  it  is  beautiful  to   listen  to  the 
young  poet  in  his  eighteenth  year,  paying  his  earliest  poetical 
tribute  to  his  "Mother  on  her  Birthday": — 
For  her,  on  the  morn  of  her  birth, 

Who  fondly  exulted  at  mine, 
For  tenderness,  wisdom,  and  worth, 

A  wreath  of  remembrance  I  twine : 
She  heard  me  when  "  Mother"  was  all 

These  infantile  lips  could  essay  ; 
And  hers  is  my  tribute,  though  small, 

And  she  is  the  light  of  my  lay. 
My  mother !  ah  !  say  if  there  be 

A  charm  in  that  exquisite  sound, 
Which  e'er  must  be  hidden  from  me, 

And  only  a  mother  hath  found  ? 
A  mother's  indulgence  I  crave, 

If  that  charm  I  weaken  in  aught ; 
Forgive  me,  wherever  I  have, 

And  smile  on  me  when  I  have  not. 
The  day  that  has  wakened  my  praise 

Be  doubly,  delightfully  blest ! 
And  bless'd  be  each  of  thy  days, 
My  earliest  guardian  confest ! 
And  if  I  must  witness  the  last, 

Oh  !  oft  to  thy  chamber  I'll  steal, 
My  tears  on  thy  coffin  to  cast, 
For  those  on  my  cradle  that  fell. 

B  B 


37°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

There  is  something-,  I  may  not  define, 

That  whispers — It  never  shall  be ; 
That  wretchedness  shall  not  be  mine,        , 

The  summons  is  first  unto  me. 
But  if  with  thyself  and  the  saints, 

A  lot  everlasting-  be  given, 
Farewell  to  the  hour  of  complaints, 

And  we  shall  be  born  into  Heaven  ! 

The  tender  beauty  of  this  spring-tide  outflow  of  his  heart 
and  genius  is  like  a  precursory  vision  of  that  tuneful  com- 
bination of  gifts  and  graces,  thought  and  feeling,  which,  in 
his  matured  character,  shed  such  blessing  upon  all  who  came 
within  the  range  of  its  light. 

As  with  the  primitive  assembly  of  Christ's  disciples,  all 
the  gifts  they  possessed,  and  the  lessons  they  had  been  taught, 
could  not  be  effectually  exercised  until  the  promise  of  the 
Father  was  fulfilled,  and  they  had  received  power  from  on 
high  3  so  with  every  individual  in  the  Church,  whatever  his 
natural  talents  may  be,  and  of  what  value  soever  his  advan- 
tages of  training,  all  are  powerless  for  the  great  purpose  of 
life  till  the  Holy  Ghost  quickens  all  by  renewing  the  heart 
and  inspiring  the  man  with  the  love  of  Christ.  When  W.  M. 
Bunting  was  in  his  eighteenth  year,  his  whole  nature  was 
awaiting  this  life-giving  touch.  He  was  conscious  of  power, 
and,  perhaps,  had  an  indefinable  feeling  after  work  to  which 
alone  his  power  was  adapted.  He  believed,  however,  that  he 
himself  must  be  consecrated  before  his  powers  could  be  con- 
sistently engaged  in  consecrated  work.  He  must  have  the 
"anointing  from  Him."  He  felt  his  need  of  it  now; 
and  was  in  the  posture  of  the  Psalmist  when  he  said,  "  In 
the  morning  will  I  direct  my  prayer  unto  Thee,  and  will  look 
up;"  or  rather,  "In  the  morning  I  will  arrange  for  Thee, 
and  expect."  The  main  current  of  his  boyish  feeling  had, 
from  the  beginning,  set  in  towards  a  preacher's  course ;  and 
seemed  to  run  on  mysteriously  in  a  line  with  mental  and 
moral  processes  of  preparation  for  such  a  course.  There  have 
been  other  cases  illustrative  of  his.  It  is  said  of  one  of  his 
contemporaries  that  his  first  and  favourite  child's  play  was  to 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  3/ J 

rear  empty  boxes,  in  a  way  to  imitate  a  pulpit,  and  sometimes 
he  and  his  brother  would  fight  for  the  chance  of  preaching 
the  first  sermon  in  it.  The  same  minister  tells  how,  when 
advanced  in  boyhood,  his  mental  and  moral  condition  was  in 
danger  of  being  damaged  by  evil  companions.  A  sight  of  one 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  volumes  begat  such  a  taste  or  rather 
rage  for  books  that  he  shut  himself  up  to  reading,  until,  for 
hick  of  other  supplies,  he  had  recourse  to  the  Bible,  which 
continued  to  be  his  elect  study  until  its  pages  begun  to  reflect 
saving  light  upon  his  converted  and  renewed  soul,  and  he 
was  at  once  constrained  to  preach  Christ  to  his  former 
companions.  In  some  cases  of  remarkable  revivals  of 
religion,  there  have  been  conversions  strikingly  sudden,  and 
strikingly  followed  immediately  by  the  employment  of  the 
freed  and  quickened  powers  in  preaching  to  sinners  or 
"prophesying"  in  the  church.  "There!  see!"  said  a 
minister  once,  in  such  a  Pentecostal  scene,  when  a  young 
man,  who  had  been  agonizing  for  mercy,  sprang  on  his  feet 
in  an  instant,  and,  with  a  beaming  face,  began  to  exhort 
those  who  were  around  him  to  come  to  Christ, — "  There  ! 
see !  The  Lord  can  make  a  preacher  in  a  minute  ! " 
Generally,  however,  sudden  as  the  call  and  power  to  preach 
appear  to  be,  there  has  been  a  foregoing  process  of  prepara- 
tion. The  faculties  have  been  under  drill  :  the  mind  has 
been  getting  into  a  posture  of  readiness ,  the  life-giving 
spark  alone  is  wanted.  That  comes  ;  and  the  whole  man  is 
in  action.  Of  this,  our  poet's  experience  affords  a  beautiful 
illustration.  His  brother  says  of  him,  as  a  boy,  "  He  never 
played  with  us.  .  .  He  was  very  sedate  and  serious. 
From  the  time  he  could  frame  a  sentence  his  passion  was 
preaching.  I  cannot  say  he  played  at  it,  for  he  went  as 
gravely  through  the  exercise  when  he  was  three  as  when  he 
was  sixty.  Quite  as  happy  as  his  father  was  he,  as  the  quiver 
became  fuller  of  young  children  -,  for  we  were  his  lawful  spoil 
for  a  congregation.  A.s  in  later  years,  his  sermons  seemed 
very  long,  especially  to  restless  hearers.  Like  many  other 
young,  self-constituted  priests,  he  was  a  Ritualist ;  and  if  no 


372  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

other  vestment  could  be  found  meet  to  typify  his  sacred 
function,  his  night-dress,  and,  under  pressure,  his  bed-sheet, 
made  him  feel  vastly  real  and  important." 

Bunting's  school-days  were  days  of  growing  preparedness 
for  what  he  was  afterwards  to  be  and  to  do.  His  turn  for 
quick  and  lively  satire  revealed  itself,  and  his  taste  for  music 
and  his  poetic  power  were  rapidly  developed.  Then  his  soul 
was  secretly  awakened  to  a  sense  of  its  sinful  helplessness 
out  of  Christ.  His  pursuit  of  God's  reconciling  mercy 
began,  and,  for  a  time,  was  kept  up  with  supreme  earnest- 
ness j  while  he  continued  his  unrelaxed  bent  upon  school 
duties  and  intellectual  culture.  To  see  a  young  man  carry- 
ing on  an  agonizing  strife  for  Divine  mercy  simultaneously 
with  the  full  daily  stretch  of  his  mental  energies  in  pursuit 
of  knowledge,  is  to  be  most  profoundly  impressed  with  the 
grandeur  of  those  powers  with  which  God  has  endowed 
human  nature.  Could  any  eye  have  looked  into  our  school- 
boy's inner  world  during  some  of  his  last  school-days,  it 
might  have  had  an  insight  into  the  mystery  of  this  two-fold 
yet  not  discordant  action.  He  went  to  and  fro  with  prepared 
lessons  for  his  scholarly  tutor,  while  every  step  was  taken 
in  warm  and  longing  expectation  to  meet  with  Jesus.  The 
Saviour  met  him.     Where  was  that  meeting? 

Nothing  more  significantly  reproves  the  clinging  fondness 
of  some  people  for  that  species  of  Christian  Fetishism  which 
confines  the  Divine  presence,  for  the  most  part,  to  consecrated 
places,  or  fixes  it  in  and  around  certain  hallowed  symbols, 
than  the  fact  that  the  Saviour  so  often  chooses  to  reveal 
Himself  to  seeking  souls,  most  graciously,  in  the  most 
ordinary  way-side  places  of  daily  life.  When  He  disclosed 
Himself  to  a  guileless  man  under  the  fig-tree,  and  spoke  to  an 
inquiring  woman,  as  He  spoke  to  no  other,  by  the  well-side 
in  the  public-way,  He  gave  His  creatures  notice  that  where 
a  human  heart  sincerely  opens  itself  to  Him,  no  spot  is 
otherwise  than  sacredly  fit  as  the  scene  of  reconciliation. 
A  penitent  son  transacting  business  behind  a  counter  is 
called  by  his  pious   father  to  throw  a  passing  glance  on  a 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  373 

passage  in  the  New  Testament,  and  there  and  then  is  filled 
with  peace.  A  mighty  and  skilled  wrestler,  smitten  in  his 
conscience,  descends  to  his  work  in  the  mine,  and  is,  by  and 
by,  heard  tilling  the  dark  depth  with  "  songs  of  deliverance." 
A  broken-hearted  ploughman  spends  his  meal-time  on  his 
knees  in  the  ditch,  and  hears  a  Voice  which  makes  him  spring 
into  new  life,  and  ever  after  to  plough  in  hope.  Yes  ;  the 
high  road,  the  open  boat,  the  ship's  deck,  the  stone  quarry, 
the  pit  on  the  common,  the  sentinel's  beat,  the  battle-field, 
the  workshop,  and  the  crowded  street,  have  all  been  con- 
secrated by  converting  grace. 

Have  you  ever  gone  to  and  fro  over  London  Bridge  amidst 
the  ceaseless  current  of  human  life  ?  If  so,  you  have  had, 
perhaps,  some  inward  queries  about  the  countless  secrecies  of 
thought,  and  feeling,  and  motive,  and  purpose,  which  have 
been  around  you,  close  to  you,  touching  you,  and  still  defying 
your  keenest  scrutiny.  When  sometimes  tempted  to  think 
hardly  of  the  multitude,  it  is  good  to  reflect  that,  possibly, 
under  the  worst  appearances,  there  are  blessed  transactions 
going  on,  by  spiritual  telegraph,  between  this  one  or  that 
one  in  the  moving  crowd  and  the  great  Author  of  all  life  in 
all  worlds.  It  was  so  in  one  instance,  at  least,  somewhere 
towards  the  autumn  of  1823. 

Young  Bunting  had  been  for  some  time  a  senior  scholar 
in  the  old  Grammar  School  of  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark. 
He  passed  to  and  fro  over  London  Bridge  every  day ;  and 
one  day,  having  lived  for  some  months  in  earnest  desire  for 
"peace  with  God,"  his  prayers  were  answered.  As  he 
walked  on,  the  blessed  spirit,  with  a  voice  which  can  never  be 
mistaken,  repeated  to  his  heart  the  Saviour's  words,  "  Him 
that  cometh  to  Me  I  will  in  no  wise  cast  out."  He  felt  that 
the  Saviour  was  close  to  him.  There  was  the  spiritual 
touch,  and  the  sinner  was  made  "  perfectly  whole."  Who 
witnessed  that  miracle  on  London  Bridge  ?  Known  to  none 
among  the  visible  crowd,  it  was  witnessed  from  above,  and 
issued  in  fruit  which  has  proved  accumulative  below.  The 
earliest  result  was  the  rapid  unfolding  of  hitherto  reserved 


374  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

powers.  The  preacher  appeared  suddenly  to  have  entered 
on  his  mission.  But  his  poetic  genius  took  wing  with  even 
more  speed  than  his  pulpit  power.  A  poem  on  "The 
Ministry  of  Angels,"  from  his  pen,  appeared  in  the  Me- 
thodist Magazine  in  the  year  of  his  conversion ;  and  one 
portion  of  it  has  all  the  warm  passion  of  a  soul  in  its  "first 
love,"  with  its  native  music  now  brightly  attuned  to  the 
Divine  voice,  and  its  imagination  purified  and  strengthened 
for  ranging  "  the  heavenlies  "  : — 

Saviour,  to  whom  my  strain  I  bring-, 

My  lowly,  loyal  offering, 
What  excellencies  cluster  not  in  Thee  ? 

The  arm  to  slay,  the  heart  to  bless, 

Omnipotence  and  tenderness, 
A  Sovereign's  grandeur — brother's  sympathy  ! 

For  Thou  couldst  stoop  with  men  to  dwell, 

Incarnate  God  !  Immanuel ! 

And  then  for  men  wert  crucified  : 
Heights,  depths,  to  reach  to  finite  mind  denied  ! 
O  Cherubim,  to  you  'tis  mystery  ! 
O  Seraphim,  ye  cannot  love  like  me, 
For  whom  the  Piince  of  Love,  despis'd,  rejected,  died! 

— And  lives  again  !  my  suit  to  plead, 

To  guide  my  steps,  and  guard  my  head, 
And  help  and  hope,  and  peace  and  power  afford, 

Yea !  even  as  my  need  shall  be 

With  Thy  "  dear  might  "  encompass  me, 
Thou  Angel  of  the  Presence  of  the  Lord  ! 

Then  onward  dauntlessly  I'll  press 

O'er  ocean  steep,  or  wilderness. 

And,  ah  !  if  Thou  sustain  my  faith, 
Haply  I  would  with  Thee  descend  beneath, 
Where  chilling  airs,  and  mists  funereal  fall, 
And  midnight  heaves  her  sombre-spreading  pall, 
The  sepulchre  of  man,  the  noiseless  vale  of  death. 

When  this  poor  body  droops  and  dies, 

Its  strength  in  desolation  lies, 
And  all  is  pain,  and  tremor,  and  decay, 

When  as  the  gates  of  Zion  ope, 

These  eyes  to  Thee  are  lifted  up, 
WThile  their  last  light  is  languishing  away  ; 

Then  send  me  from  Thy  holy  hill, 

Thine  angels  to  befriend  me  still, 

And — all  the  world's  endearments  fled — 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  375 

Curtain,  with  unfurl'd  wings,  affliction's  bed  : 
So  be  my  chamber,  'neath  their  sweet  control, 
The  sanctuary  of  a  suffering  soul, 
Where  rays  of  Paradise  their  gradual  glory  shed. 

Then,  welcome  joys  invisible, 

Transcending  thought,  ineffable  ! 
Fruition  and  eternity  be  mine  ! 

Welcome  th'  assembly  of  the  blest, 

Whose  myriad  voices  never  rest, 
But  in  one  long  triumphant  anthem  join  1 

Yet,  when  I  mingle  with  the  throng 

That  to  the  upper  Church  belong, 

This,  this  my  first  desire  shall  be, 
Give  me  the  sight  of  Him  who  ransom'd  me ! 
Jesu  !  of  all  the  good  to  angels  given, 
Of  all  the  beauty  and  the  bliss  of  heaven — 
Bliss,  Beauty,  Heaven  itself — I  ask  a  sight  of  Thee  ! 

Throughout  the  year  of  his  spiritual  birth,  the  young  poet 
•seems  to  be  ever  lingering  before  the  Crucified,  as  if,  in 
solemn  awe  and  reverent  love,  he  would  fain  wait  till  all  the 
meaning  of  mysterious  Calvary  entered  for  ever  his  adoring 
soul.  His  new-born  spirit  had  caught  that  subduing  view 
of  the  great  sacrifice,  and  his  own  interest  in  it,  which  con- 
strains all  by  whom  it  is  realized  to  sing — 

Let  all  Thy  love,  and  all  Thy  grief, 
Graven  on  my  heart  for  ever  be ! 

As  a  preacher,  he  wants  now  to  be,  like  Paul,  ever  ready, 
from  the  depths  of  his  hallowed  being,  to  cry,  "  God  forbid 
that  I  should  glory  save  in  the  cross  of  our  Lord  Jesus 
Christ,  by  whom  the  world  is  crucified  unto  me,  and  I  unto 
the  world."  And  as  a  poet,  he  would  have  all  his  powers 
made  holy  by  exercising  them,  first  of  all,  amidst  the  scenes 
of  Calvary.  It  has  been  said  of  him  that  his  " trial  sermon" 
"  rang  with  the  true  tone  of  a  man  divinely  called  to  the 
ministry ;  "  and  it  may  be  said,  as  to  his  first  devout  poetic 
essays,  that  they  were  instinct  with  the  life,  and  tuneful 
with  the  native  expression,  of  true  poetry.  His  "  Scenes  at 
Calvary"  are  now  touching  in  their  plaintiveness,  now 
impressive  and  striking  in  their  prophetic  visions,  and  now 


37*5  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

tender  and  exalted  in  their  Christian  devotion.  There  is  some- 
thing finely  appropriate  in  the  rhythmical  movement  of  this 
hymn-like  effusion  : — 

The  clamour  of  the  crowd  is  spent, 

Nor  aught  of  sound  is  stirring, 
But  of  the  women's  wild  lament, 

To  long-lost  joys  recurring  ; 
And  there  the  loved  disciple  sits, 
Watching  the  latest  light  that  flits 

Athwart  that  shadow'd  visage. 

But, — where  yon  clouds  their  columns  rear, — 

What  strange,  terrific  vision? — 
The  Signet  and  the  Hand  appear, 

Sealing  the  dread  commission ; 
And,  bearing  it  through  middle  skies, 
On  downward  wing  the  Herald  flies, — 

He  flies  to  execute  it. 


Heaven's  myriad  host  stoop  wistful  down, 
From  bolder  heights  of  glory  ; 

Then  make  in  softer  music  known 
The  wonder-kindling  story  ; 

And  cherubim  and  seraphim 

Repeat,  prolong,  th'  adoring  hymn, 
But  louder,  loftier  swell  it. 

That  Herald  whom  Jehovah  sent, 

With  awful  signs  investing, 
Returns  with  speed  benevolent, 

The  mystic  fact  attesting, — 
11  'Tis  finished  !  saints  and  men  be  glad  ! 
The  debt,  the  mighty  debt,  is  paid, 

And  God  Himself  hath  paid  it  ! '' 

No  wanderer  shall  He  pace  again 

Thy  streets,  O  holy  city  ! 
Nor,  when  again  He  cometh,  rain 

O'er  thee  the  tears  of  pity  ; 
But  He  shall  come  to  do  thee  harm, 
And  crush  thee  with  His  strong  right  arm, 

That  arm,  how  dire  its  vengeance  ! 

No  more  depress'd  by  toils  and  pains, 

But  terrible  in  wonder, 
On  fire-shod  steeds,  with  rushing  manes, 

And  necks  enwrapped  in  thunder, 
Calvary  !  o'er  thy  heights  shall  ride 
Th'  unconquerable  Crucified, 

And  sweep  thee  into  ruin 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  377 

I  see  Him,  as  of  old  He  came 

By  whelming  floods  attested, 
And  as,  in  panoply  of  flame, 

He  shall  return  invested  ; 
"With  meteor-eye,  and  naked  brand, 
Crude  desolation  in  his  hand, 

He  comes, — prepare  to  meet  Him  ! 

Hasten,  O  Christ,  Thy  victory  ! 

Dispread  and  then  complete  it ; 
And  bring  Thy  royal  advent  nigh, 

To  such  as  long  to  greet  it. 
But  ne'er  from  this  devoted  heart 
The  mem'ry  of  Thy  love  depart — 

The  mem'ry  of  Thy  passion  ! 

Thy  Cross,  the  standard  of  my  hopes ; 

Those  nails,  my  load  sustaining  ; 
That  spear,  which  richest  fountain  opes, 

To  heal  my  soul's  complaining  ; — 
Shall,  long  as  life,  my  glorying  be, 
And  lasting  as  eternity, 

The  burden  of  my  triumph  ! 

The  name  of  W.  M.  Banting  is  more  widely  known  as 
that  of  a  hymn-writer.  One  hymn  of  his  now  forms  a  part 
of  the  annual  "  Covenant  Service  "  of  the  Wesleyan  Me- 
thodists throughout  the  world  ;  yet  this  was  one  of  his  first 
productions,  and  was  written  before  he  was  fully  eighteen 
years  old.  His  father  was  occupied  in  London  from  1821 
to  1824  as  editor  of  the  Methodist  Magazine  and  other 
literature  of  Methodism.  One  morning,  in  1824,  at  the 
breakfast-table,  he  introduced  a  hymn  as  an  anonymous 
contribution,  and  introduced  it  for  the  purpose  of  calling 
attention  to  its  merit.  The  author  was  sitting  at  the  table, 
unsuspected  by  his  father  to  be  the  contributor  of  such 
verses.  How  should  he  have  a  suspicion  that  his  boy's 
hand  was  in  this  ?  It  was,  in  most  respects,  so  mature. 
The  lad  might  write  verses  on  his  mother's  birthday,  or  give 
his  imagination  wing  amidst  the  scenes  of  Calvary,  or  pour 
forth  the  devout  utterance  of  his  "first  love"  for  Christ;  but 
this  hymn  was  a  concentration  of  a  Christian  pilgrim's  long  life 
experience,  and  evinced  as  clear  and  full  an  insight  into  the 
deeper  and  more  delicate  workings  of  a  Christian  heart  in 


3/8  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

the  presence  of  its  God  as  ever  Charles  Wesley  himself  has 
shown  in  his  experimental  hymns.  It  may  be  that  some 
will  be  tempted  to  omit  the  third  verse  from  public  use, 
because  of  its  alliterative  quaintness  and  its  somewhat  prim 
antithetic  mode ;  yet,  with  all  this,  it  guides  the  soul  into 
Divine  communion,  so  holily  familiar,  and;is  so  much  in  the 
manner  and  spirit  of  the  old  Puritan  form  of  covenant  in 
which  the  people  join,  that,  after  all,  the  devout  singer  is 
loth  to  lose  its  music.  The  service  known  among  Me- 
thodists as  "The  Renewal  of  the  Covenant"  is  solemnly 
observed  on  the  first  Sunday  of  every  year.  The  members 
join  in  an  impressive  form  of  personal  dedication  to  God, 
and  then  unite  in  the  celebration  of  the  Lord's  Supper. 
Appropriate  hymns  were  provided  for  the  service  by  Mr, 
Wesley ;  but  when  the  original  hymn-book  was  enlarged, 
in  1830,  Mr.  Bunting's  hymn  was  inserted ;  and  since  then 
it  has  come  very  largely  into  use  as  the  leading  hymn  for 
the  service.  It  is  worthy  of  this  distinction.  The  old 
"  Covenant  Hymn  "  by  Charles  Wesley,  beginning  with 

Come,  let  us  use  the  grace  divine, 

is  finely  adapted  for  general  use  by  the  assembled  society ; 
but  Bunting's  hymn  is  more  suitable,  in  that,  while  all  can 
join,  it  expresses  in  particular  the  feelings  of  each,  so  as  to 
make  the  service,  to  every  one,  a  personal  act  of  confession 
and  sacrifice.     Charles  Wesley's  hymn,  beginning  with 

O,  how  shall  the  sinner  perform 
The  vows  he  hath  vowed  to  the  Lord  ? 

is  rather  to  be  used  "after  the  renewal  of  the  covenant," 
and  even  then  the  alternations  between  doubtfulness  and 
swelling  confidence,  fear  and  jubilant  hope,  appear  to  be 
too  frequent  and  sudden  5  nor  is  the  metrical  form  of  the 
hymn  fairly  consistent  with  the  states  of  mind  which  it 
expresses.  Our  young  poet's  metre  and  rhythm  more  beau- 
tifully  become  the  approach  of  the  tremulous  and  expectant 
soul ;  while  it  breathes  that  child-like  tenderness  which  so 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  379 

sweetly  accords  with  its  covenant  transaction  with  God. 
It  is,  indeed,  by  its  general  use,  proved  to  be  unsurpassed 
as  the  opening  hymn  of  the  Covenant  Service,  while  Dod- 
dridge's inimitable  utterance  of  jubilant  feeling  and  hopeful 
rest  in  covenant  blessedness  must  ever  be  most  appropriate 
at  the  completion  of  the  solemn  new  year's  transaction. 
How  many  hearts  from  year  to  year  have  been  melted  while 
they  have  uttered  the  young  Methodist  poet's  verses  as  their 
opening  hymn  to  their  covenant  God!  and  how  many,  when 
the  covenant  grace  has  been  sealed  on  their  hearts,  at  the 
Lord's  table,  have  sung  with  holy  joy — 

O  happy  day  that  fixed  my  choice 
On  Thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  God  ! 

Whose  spiritual  song  perpetuates  the  wider  and  richer 
blessing,  that  of  the  saintly  Doddridge,  or  that  of  the  new- 
born lad  of  eighteen,  whose  first  hymn,  within  seven  years 
of  its  issue,  was  sung  in  the  most  solemn  assemblies  of 
Methodism  throughout  the  world  ?  No  soul  that  had  learnt 
to  breathe  the  true  spirit  of  a  Covenant  Service  can  ever 
forget  the  subdued  delight  with  which  it  found  itself  fur- 
nished with  means  of  expression  when,  for  the  first  time,  it 
joined  in  singing — 

O  God  !  how  often  hath  Thine  ear 

To  me  in  willing  mercy  bow'd  ! 
While  worshipping  Thine  altar  near, 

Lowly  I  wept,  and  strongly  vow'd. 
But  ah  !  the  feebleness  of  man ! 
Have  I  not  vow'd  and  wept  in  vain  ? 

Return,  O  Lord  of  Hosts,  return  ! 

Behold  Thy  servant  in  distress  ; 
My  faithlessness  again  I  mourn  ; 

Again  forgive  my  faithlessness  ; 
And  to  Thine  arms  my  spirit  take, 
And  bless  me  for  the  Saviour's  sake. 

In  pity  of  the  soul  Thou  lov'st, 

Now  bid  the  sin  Thou  hat'st  expire ; 
Let  me  desire  what  Thou  approv'st, — 

Thou  dost  approve  what  I  desire; 
And  Thou  wilt  deign  to  call  me  Thine, 
And  I  will  dare  to  call  Thee  mine. 


380  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

This  day  the  covenant  I  sign, 

The  bond  of  sure  and  promised  peace, 

Nor  can  I  doubt  its  power  divine, 
Since  seal'd  with  Jesu's  blood  it  is. 

That  blood  I  take,  that  blood  alone, 

And  make  the  cov'nant  peace  my  own. 

But,  that  my  faith  no  more  may  know 

Or  change,  or  interval,  or  end, 
Help  me  in  all  Thy  paths  to  go, 

And  now  as  e'er  my  voice  attend ; 
And  gladden  me  with  answers  mild, 
And  commune,  Father,  with  Thy  child! 

It  is  said  of  Dr.  Jabez  Bunting  that  he  never,  as  a  preacher, 
excelled  his  first  sermon.  Certainty  it  may  be  said  of  his 
son  that  he  never,  as  a  hymn- writer,  surpassed  this,  his  rirst 
hymn. 

The  young  poet  now  entered  the  Methodist  ministry,  and 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  in  full  active  service,  he  gave  the 
best  proofs  of  a  Divine  call,  as  a  Christian  preacher  and 
pastor.  Those  who  saw  him  and  heard  him  in  his  earlier 
course  describe  him  as  "  tall,  thin,  juvenile,  and  altogether 
interesting.  His  manner  was  collected,  grave,  and  impressive. 
He  spoke  with  much  distinctness,  and  was  a  master  of 
emphasis.  .  .  .  From  the  first  his  sermons  abounded  in  a 
certain  tender  poetry  of  thought  and  phrase.  .  .  .  Now  and 
then  a  light  and  colour  were  thrown  upon  the  composition, 
which  not  only  beautified  the  places  where  they  fell,  but  lit  up 
and  harmonized  the  whole  landscape.  .  .  .  His  later  preach- 
ing did  not  altogether  lose,  though  it  did  not  sparkle  so 
brightly  with  its  former  passages  of  beauty.  The  flowers 
had  ripened  into  fruit."  There  was  great  increase  of  point 
and  power j  and  "less  of  digression  into  those  almost 
irresistible  topics  of  remark  with  which  impudent  heresies, 
the  follies  of  what  are  called  leaders  of  thought,  and  the 
dogmatisms  of  modern  magazines  and  newspapers,  so  seri- 
ously annoy  sensible  Christians.  He  came  to  live  above  that 
world  also,  and  lifted  his  people  with  him  ;  ignoring  rather 
than  contradicting  it.  .  .  .  His  sermons  and  the  services  he 
conducted  were  unusually  long."      Public  worship  was  with 


A  TUNEFUL  SOX  OF  A  PROPHET.  381 

him,  as  it  was  with  the  best  of  the  Puritans,  the  business 
of  the  Lord's  day.  This  was  a  matter  of  conscience  ;  and, 
though  it  involved  opposition  and  unpopularity,  he  kept  up 
his  testimony  against  the  "  world  which  hates  to  be  preached 
to,  and  to  churches,  increasingly  worldly,  which  prefer  any 
occupation,  in  the  sanctuary  or  out  of  it,  to  the  meek  hearing 
of  God's  word."  Throughout  his  public  course,  however, 
whether  forsaken  by  hearers  who  do  not  cultivate  religious 
thought,  or  whether  appreciated  and  beloved  by  those  who 
do ;  all  who  knew  him  felt  that  his  spirit,  and  motive,  and 
aim,  in  his  work,  were  such  as  he  expressed  in  one  of  his 
own  hymns,  put  into  the  lips  of  "  A  Christian  seeking  to  be 
useful" : — 

Oh  !  for  my  Master's  generous  mind, 

That  I  might  live  to  bless  mankind, 

A  selfish  quietude  contemn, 

And  serve  the  Lord  by  serving  them  ; 

Nor  all  in  secret  joy  expend 

The  gifts  which  on  my  soul  descend. 

Too  well  I  love  to  glide  unseen, 

"With  twilight,  through  some  lone  ravine, — 

Where  earth,  o'erhanging  high,  hath  bent 

An  interposing  firmament, 

And  flowers  along  its  brink  that  glow 

Are  stars  to  that  still  world  below. 

But  'tis  a  nobler  joy  to  move 
In  open  tracks,  with  life,  and  love, 
And,  scattering  blessings  in  my  train, 
Receive  them  in  new  bliss  again  ; 
Earth's  broider'd  robe  beneath  me  spread, 
Heaven  fondly  brightening  o'er  my  head ! 

I  covet  years  in  duty  spent, 

Unspotted,  useful,  and  content ; 

The  Christian  home,  the  crowded  shrine, 

The  paths  of  charity  divine, — 

And  like  the  last  my  Master  trod, 

A  death-bed  witnessing  for  God. 

Confirmed  disease,  spasmodic  asthma,  obliged  the  poet- 
preacher  to  retire  at  length  from  active  life.  He  had  been 
trained  to  action  ;  he  was  now  to  be  disciplined  by  suffering. 


382  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

For  seventeen  years  he  was  by  turns  the  imprisoned  suf- 
ferer, the  occasional  preacher,  the  wise  and  gentle  pastor, 
and  the  unselfish  "friend  in  need."  It  was  a  holy  pleasure 
to  him,  when  permitted,  to  hear  that  Gospel  which  it  had 
been  his  joy  to  preach. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  him  in  my 
congregation,"  says  a  minister  who  used  to  visit  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Mr.  Bunting's  residence.  "  It  was  in  a  small, 
thoroughly  Methodist  Chapel  in  Kentish  Town,  not  very 
far  from  Highgate  Rise,  where  the  invalid  lived.  On  rising 
in  the  pulpit  to  begin  the  service,  my  first  glance  fell  upon 
the  well-known  form.  There  he  was,  as  a  loving  pen  has  so 
happily  sketched  him,  'a  tall  emaciated  man,  with  a  high 
white  forehead,  very  bald — what  hair  was  left,  dark  brown 
and  silky ;  his  eyes  grey,  large  and  luminous ;  with  a  nose 
which  indexed,  as  Coleridge  teaches,  a  right  royal  will  5  with 
delicately-moulded  mouth  and  chin  ■  with  hands  of  exquisite 
form  and  colour  ■  with  the  look,  altogether,  of  a  man  not  of 
this  world  ;  unmistakably  a  minister  of  religion.  He  made 
you  think  of  the  risen  Lazarus,  walking  pensively  from  his 
first  to  his  second  sepulchre.'  Yes,  this  was  the  man  as  I 
saw  him,  just  inside  the  door  under  the  little  end  gallery. 
Kentish  Town  could  not  boast  then  of  its  large,  Gothic  chapel, 
so-called — one  of  that  modern  class,  under  whose  aspiring 
roofs,  in  so  many  places  in  the  land,  the  Methodists  are  now 
faintly  trying  to  keep  up  the  spirit  and  aim  of  Methodism. 
The  old  chapel  was  small  and  snug,  and  my  distinguished 
hearer  was  near  enough  to  me  to  allow  an  opportunity  of 
marking  the  expressions  of  his  devout  soul  while  he  listened 
to  the  Word.  He  took  part  in  the  service  as  if  God's  house 
were  his  home.  His  voice  was  feeble  ;  but,  oh!  with  what 
feeling  and  expression  he  joined  in  singing  that  heavenly- 
toned  hymn — 

Come,  Holy  Ghost,  all  quickening-  fire. 

His  soul  was  intensely  moved  in  giving  tuneful  utterance  to 
one  verse  in  particular — 


A.    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  383 

My  peace,  my  life,  my  comfort  Thou, 

My  treasure  and  my  all  Thou  art! 
True  witness  of  my  sonship,  now 

Engraving  pardon  on  my  heart; 
Seal  of  my  sins  in  Christ  forgiven, 

Earnest  of  love,  and  pledge  of  heaven. 

The  sermon — during  which  his  radiant  eye  was  never  turned 
from  the  preacher — was  an  exposition  of  Ephesians  i.  12, 
13,  143  and  his  prayer  at  the  close  was  a  beautifully  simple 
transformation  of  the  leading  thoughts  in  the  sermon  into  a 
reverent  and  loving  appeal  to  God  on  behalf  of  himself,  the 
congregation,  and  the  preacher.  The  tremulous  warmth 
with  which  he  afterwards  expressed  his  gratitude  to  the 
Author  of  truth  for  the  light  and  comfort  afforded  to  the 
teachable  hearers  of  Christ's  word,  so  touched  me  that  I 
have  been  thankful  ever  since  that  he  had  been,  once  at 
least,  among  my  hearers." 

The  poetical  genius  of  this  devout  hearer  in  God's  house 
was  always  alive  to  the  beauty  and  sublimities  of  nature,  and 
to  the  silent  teachings  of  nature  as  well  as  grace.  In  the 
May  of  1839  ne  was  aD^e  to  travel,  and  found  his  way  into 
some  of  the  richest  and  wildest  scenes  of  Devonshire.  (<We 
called  at  Holnicote,"  says  he  in  a  letter,  "a.  seat  of  the 
excellent  Sir  Thomas  Acland,  and  one  of  the  most  Eden- 
like spots  that  ever  peered  on  my  senses,  or  my  fancy 
either.  As  we  reached  lovely  Lynton,  it  began  to  rain  fast, 
and  this  day  has  been  one  of  stormy  wind  and  cold.  We 
are  delightfully  quiet,  having  anticipated  '  the  season.'  Our 
windows  command  a  magnificent,  and  now  a  wild,  sea-view, 
with  the  accompaniments  of  bold  headland  and,  more  in- 
ward, deep  ravine,  rambling  brooks,  and  the  freshest  verdure 
of  spring-time.  My  spirits  are  alternately  exhilarated  and 
soothed  by  our  situation,  and  my  heart  rejoices  in  God." 

He  could  hardly  fail  to  catch  inspiration  amidst  such  sur- 
roundings. To  such  inspiration  we  owe,  perhaps,  some  of 
his  recorded  thoughts  "Among  the  Mountains": — 

Yon  mountain  altars!  smoking  to  the  skies, 
As  with  mute,  reverent  Nature's  sacrifice  ! 


384  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And,  lo!  as  erst,  but  now  to  common  siq-ht, 
Propitious  splendours  gleam  from  cloud  of  light ! 
Symbols,  at  least,  be  these  of  acts  that  bind 
Created  to  the  soul-creating-  mind. 
Nor  is  the  lesson  lost,  dread  Lord,  on  mine ; 
Which,  resting  on  Thy  word,  accepts  a  sign 
From  lesser  oracles.     "  The  sea,"  O  God, 
Oft  as  u  the  sanctuary,"  Thy  feet  have  trod  ; 
And  him  Thou  callest  blest,  who,  pure  in  heart, 
Sees  Thee  in  all  Thy  ways — divinest  art ! 
Paternal,  all-pervading  Deity, 
Thy  voiceless  works  invite  my  soul  to  worship  Thee  ! 

Nor  could  his  deep  affliction,  when  at  home,  shut  up  in  the 
chamber  of  suffering,  entirely  check  the  music  of  his  conse- 
crated genius.  His  sufferings  were  great  at  times,  and  yet 
these  failed  to  prevent  him,  even  at  the  risk  of  life,  from 
rising  to  administer  comfort  to  those  who,  he  thought,  were 
worse  afflicted  than  himself.  His  afflictions  could  not  even 
check  the  playful  humour  by  which  he  sought,  at  times,  to 
brighten  his  friends'  spirits  and  his  own.  His  wit  had  been 
proved  to  be  bright  and  keen.  He  could  skilfully  wield  a 
sharp  weapon  when  it  was  needful ;  but  his  hand  was 
always  under  the  command  of  a  reverent  and  loving  heart. 
He  could  put  forth  a  pun,  but  he  was  too  wise  to  be  an 
habitual  punster.  A  punning  Methodist  preacher  is  always 
a  wearisome  inconsistency. 

How  every  fool  can  play  upon  the  word ! 

He  could  be  humorous,  witty,  and  playful  enough,  however, 
to  relieve  the  gloom  of  his  sick  chamber.  As  an  invalid,  he 
had  begun  to  practise  quaint  modes  of  tilling  up  moments  of 
depression,  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  the 
dwelling  where  he  finished  his  course  :  as  when  he  gave 
"  A  Christmas  welcome  to  divers  sparrows  which  perched 
themselves  on  the  branches  of  a  plane-tree  in  front  of  my 
casement" : — 

Quoth  Christ,  No  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground 
Without  your  Heavenly  Father's  sov'reign  will : 

Who  guides  you  hither  in  your  sunny  round  ? 
Quoth  Faith,  It  is  my  Heavenly  Father  still. 


A    TUNEFUL    SON     OF    A    PROPHET.  385 

God  sent  His  saint  good  news  by  carrier-dove ; 

God  sent  His  seer  by  ravens  each  day's  dinner ; 
God  sends  blythe  sparrows,  in  His  thoughtful  love, 

To  sit  and  sing  beside  a  downcast  sinner. 

Ye  peep  into  my  room,  as  ye  would  say, 

How  fares  our  friend,  by  whom  so  well  we  fare  ? 

Ye  chirrup,  Cheer  up!  clouds  will  clear  away  ! 

Ye  spring  toward  heaven,  and  bid  my  heart  be  there. 

No  good  's  too  little  for  great  Love  to  do  : 
A  bird's  an  angel  when  from  God  it  comes; 

And  He,  who  sends  my  cheer,  wing'd  mutes,  by  you, 
Will  send  you  soon  by  me  your  Christmas  crumbs. 

Now,  the  sufferer  could,  on  occasions,  laugh  with  a  lively 
friend;  could  play  with  a  white  mouse  which  used  to  visit 
him  on  his  dying  bed,  and  share  his  meals;  and,  when  able 
to  write,  could  interweave  pleasantries  with  plaintive  ac- 
counts of  himself,  and  records  of  pious  submission.  At  a 
time  of  great  suffering  from  prevalent  high  winds,  he  writes 
to  a  friend  :  "  I  have  been  coughing,  or  panting,  or  protecting 
myself  by  changes  of  posture,  &c,  during  most  of  the  time  ; 
reading  restrainedly,  thinking  hurtfully  (to  myself)  but  help- 
lessly, and  praying  much  in  fragments  and  gasps,  in  solitude, 
or  in  the  company  of  sleepers.  I  suppose  we  must  be  some 
hundred  feet  higher  in  the  air  than  you;  and  I  have  often 
felt  as  if  I  were  a  sick  and  wingless  crow,  swinging  with  the 
wind  in  a  crazy  nest,  at  the  top  of  one  of  Miss  Court's 
elms,  on  the  other  side  of  the  lane.  Then  I  have  had  hours 
of  inevitable  and  cough-exasperating  talk  with  my  woman- 
kind— have  I  not  ?  "  One  mode  of  short  relief  for  himself  at 
this  time  was  that  of  indulging  his  playful  music 

A  poor  old  crow,  with  wounded  wing, 
Here  in  my  windy  nest  I  swing, 

Up  in  the  high  elm-tree ; 
I  can't  fly  forth  ;  I  can't  hop  down  ; 
And  every  lad  from  London  town 

May  have  a  shot  at  me. 

I'd  rather  be  a  barn-door  bird 

On  some  snug  roost,  by  storms  unstirred, 

Down  in  a  lowland  farm  ; 
Nightly  with  hen  and  chickens  housed, 
Early,  by  sweet,  warm  sunshine  roused, 

And  all  day  hid  from  harm. 

c  c 


386  THE  POETS  OF   METHODISM. 

But  an  end  must  come.  The  thoughtful  preacher,  the 
sympathising,  diligent  pastor,  the  helpful  friend,  the  musical 
companion,  the  genius,  the  wit,  the  Methodist  poet,  has  to 
pass  the  limit  of  mortality.  He  had  seen  a  lovely  daughter 
depart  before  him.  He  had  himself,  again  and  again,  been 
led  to  the  brink  of  the  river,  within  touch  of  the  waters. 
He  had  heard  the  oldest  Methodist  preacher  then  living 
preach  the  last  Methodist  sermon  he  would  ever  hear.  He 
had,  for  the  last  time,  conducted  family  worship  on  the 
anniversary  evening  of  his  daughter's  departure,  dwelling  on 
his  own  unworthiness  to  enter  Heaven  except  among  those 
whose  robes  were  made  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb. 
"  It  was  with  them,"  he  said,  "  that  my  dear  child  found  an 
entrance,  and  that  is  the  only  way  for  me — the  blood  of  the 
Lamb."  He  had  kissed  his  "Blessed  Bible,"  as  one  of  his 
last  actions.  His  last  consolations,  in  the  body,  were  found 
in  portions  of  his  loved  hymn-book :  and  his  last  utterances 
were  words  of  sympathy  with  some  of  his  suffering  neigh- 
bours and  fellow  Christians.  And  now  he  was  to  realise 
the  desire  which  he  had  expressed  in  a  hymn,  whose  sweet 
solemn  music  and  deep  feeling  are  so  attuned  to  the 
mysteries  of  Gethsemane,  and  the  sanctities  of  "  The 
Christian's  Chamber."  The  hymn  is  founded  on  St. 
Luke  xxii.  39 — 44 :  u  He  came  out,  and  went,  as  He  was 
wont,  to  the  Mount  of  Olives ;  .  .  .  and  being  in  an  agony, 
He  prayed  more  earnestly." 


Oh,  never  could  my  Master  seek 

The  hour  of  lonely  prayer, 
But  troubles  more  than  sighs  could  speak 

Would  haunt  His  vision  there. 
He  felt  the  chill  o'ershadowing  awe 

Which  warns  of  storms  to  be  ; 
And  in  the  place  of  prayer  foresaw 

The  scene  of  agony. 

But  when  the  dreaded  hour  drew  nigh 

On  that  frequented  spot, 
Blest  answers  came  to  many  a  sigh 

By  all  but  God  forgot ; 


A    TUNEFUL    SON    OF    A    PROPHET.  387 

And  angel  comforters  had  leave 

To  gather  many  a  tear 
Which  e'en  the  breathless,  listening  eve 

Failed,  when  they  fell,  to  hear. 
Thy  follower,  Jesus,  would  I  be, 

Where'er  Thy  feet  have  trod  ! 
And  dear,  like  Thine,  have  been  to  me 

My  lonelier  hours  with  God  ; 
Him  in  my  chamber  oft  I  seek, 

Him  on  my  bed  desire ; 
And  when  of  death  my  tremors  speak, 

His  words  new  trust  inspire. 
Yet,  if  the  foe  should  find  me  here, 

And  traitor  doubts  intrude, 
Angel  Jehovah  !  Thou  wilt  cheer 

My  soul's  dread  solitude. 
And  while  the  future  beams  on  me, 

The  past  this  balm  shall  bear — 
The  scene  of  mortal  agony 

Was  long  the  place  of  prayer. 

His  end  was  come.     There  was  silence.    Wife  and  daughter 

were  watching.     A  verse  of  one  of  his  hymns  was  now  to 

take  the  light  of  a  prophetic  longing,  and  to  be  fulfilled.     He 

had  once  sung — 

When  on  death's  lone  bed  I  lie, 
Languishing  in  peace  to  die, 
May  some  spirit,  hovering  near, 
Sing  a  Saviour  in  my  ear  ! 

That  spirit  was  now  present.      He   lay  supported  by   his 

daughter,  and,  angel-like,  she  repeated  softly  in  his  ear  the 

text  which,  forty  years  before,  had  opened  to  him  the  door  of 

spiritual  life  :  "  Him  that  cometh  unto  Me,  I  will  in  no  wise 

cast  out."     The  balmy  promise  wafted  him  to  Paradise. 

He  was  born,  on  the  23rd  of  November,    180^,   as   it 

proved,  to  be  a  preacher.     He  was  born  a  poet,  born  with 

"  music  in  himself  ;"  and  was  born  into  the  life  above  on 

the  morning  of  November  13th,  1866,  from  the  room  where 

his  organ  stood.     To  those  who  judge  "  according  to  the 

appearance,"   his  "harp  was  turned  to  mourning,  and  his 

organ  into  the  voice  of  them  that  weep  ;  "  but  to  those  who 

live  by  faith,  his  soul   is  uttering  new  melodies,  and  his 

poetic  genius  is  for  ever  breathing  fresh  harmonies  of  thought 

and  sound. 


388  THE  POETS   OF   METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


AX    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN. 

Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence. 

-t^JSSHP  ^JO^G  our  more  refined  pleasures,  one  of  the 
most  agreeable  is  that  serene  feeling  which  per- 
fect harmony  inspires.  A  delicate  sense  of  this 
1/1S*\  1S  sometimes  enjoyed  while  the  eye  reposes  upon 
•°  £  the  forms  and  colourings  of  silently -living  nature  j 
but  it  is  realised  more  frequently,  perhaps,  and  in 
greater  fulness,  when  we  catch  through  the  ear  a  "  concord 
of  sweet  sounds."  Such  a  feeling  indicates  our  high  re- 
lation ;  for  all  the  deeper  researches  of  science,  as  well  as 
all  the  teachings  of  revelation,  show  that,  whether  as  the 
Creator  of  worlds,  or  as  the  Saviour  of  men,  God  is  the 
"  Lover  of  concord."  There  is  no  harmony  among  creatures, 
however,  so  pleasing  to  Him,  or  by  which  He  is  so  glorihed, 
as  the  harmony  of  sanctified  human  nature.  ' '  Whatsoever 
things  are  true,  whatsoever  things  are  honest,  whatsoever 
things  are  just,  whatsoever  things  are  pure,  whatsoever 
things  are  lovely,  whatsoever  things  are  of  good  report  j 
if  there  be  any  virtue,  and  if  there  be  any  praise,"  all  are 
combined  in  the  truly  hallowed  man ;  and  so  combined  as 
to  form  a  beautifully  consistent  whole ;  a  character  in  which 
there  is  nothing  unpleasantly  prominent,  and  in  which  its 
graces  are  so  agreeably  blended,  that  to  see  it  is  to  realise  a 


A  strain  divine 
Ariseth  softly  from  each  leafy  dell, 
And  streamlet's  gush— 
My  soul  awaketh  !     With  the  gentle  he.nrt 
Of  Nature  it  would  bear  a  joyous  part. 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  389 

sense  of  beautiful  symmetry,  and  of  harmonised  life.  Such 
a  character  may  inspire  a  feeling  akin  to  that  which  is 
wakened  by  the  music  of  a  perfect  choir.  An  example  of 
this  amiable  godliness  once  lived  in  Devonport,  in  Devon — 
a  man  about  whose  life  there  was  a  tuneful  charm.  His 
voice  was  as  pleasant  as  his  example.  Those  who  remember 
his  musical  taste  and  skill  might  compare  his  life  to  the 
harmony  with  which  he  would  sometimes  regale  his  friends. 
He  was  a  master  of  music.  Never  were  some  of  Handel's 
divine  solos  rendered  more  thrillingly  effective  than  when 
he  sang,  and  played  the  accompaniments  to  his  own  voice. 
On  one  occasion  a  friend,  who  had  been  deeply  moved  by 
the  music,  remarked,  at  the  close,  that  nothing  had  ever 
brought  heaven  so  near  to  him. 

"  Ah  ! "  said  the  musician,  "  I  once  heard  music  far  more 
heavenly  in  this  very  house." 

"  When,  and  by  whom  ?  "  was  the  inquiry. 

"  I  can  tell  you  when,"  said  he,  "  but  by  whom  it  was  I 
cannot  say.  It  was  years  ago,  when  we  had  a  beautiful 
little  one.  The  child  appeared  to  be  happiness  itself.  Oh, 
so  lovely  !  It  was  very  dear  to  us.  It  was  truly  enshrined 
in  my  heart.  God  saw  fit  to  touch  the  darling.  The  touch 
seemed  to  brighten  it,  and  yet  to  withdraw  it  from  us.  It 
lay  on  the  very  brink  of  life,  and  I  began  to  feel  how  hard 
it  was  to  let  it  go.  Midnight  came  on,  and  I  paced  the 
adjoining  room,  just  where  we  are  now,  and  '  besought  God 
for  the  child.'  It  was  a  solemn  hour  of  watching  and 
prayer.  At  length  I  heard  distant  music.  It  drew  near  and 
yet  nearer  ;  I  was  struck  with  the  music  even  amidst  my 
sorrow.  Indeed,  even  my  prayer  was  suspended.  My  first 
thought  was  that  a  regiment  was  on  the  march  out  of  town, 
and  was  led  by  the  full  band.  I  had  been  used  to  military 
band  music,  and,  indeed,  to  all  other  classes  of  music ;  but 
music  like  that  I  could  not  remember.  What  regiment  was 
it  ?  or  what  could  it  be  ?  It  approached  ;  and  so  sure  was  I 
that  it  was  as  I  first  supposed,  not  recollecting  the  hour  of 
the  night,  and  not  stopping  to  reason  on  the  extraordinary 


39°  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

character  of  the  harmony,  which  I  seemed  to  feel  as  well  to 
hear,  I  threw  up  the  window  to  watch  the  passing  of  the  band. 
I  saw  nothing.  There  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  The  music 
passed,  and  was  melting  off  in  a  way  that  filled  me  with 
peaceful  awe,  when,  at  that  moment,  the  nurse  opened  the 
door  of  the  room,  and  whispered,  ■  The  child  is  gone  ! '  I 
leave  you  to  think  how  near  that  music  brought  heaven  to 
me.  What  should  I  have  seen  if  my  eyes  had  been  unveiled 
while  my  ears  were  open  to  the  music  ?  My  precious  child 
went  off  amidst  the  angelic  band  ! " 

"  What  was  heard  by  that  friend,"  said  one  who  had  lis- 
tened to  the  story,  and  rehearsed  it,  long  after,  in  a  quiet 
evening  circle,  "  was  just  what  a  young  modern  poet  realised 
in  poetic  vision,  and  which  the  music  of  her  vision  would 
help  every  one  to  realise  who  believes  that  the  harmonies 
of  the  unseen  world  are  closest  to  us  when  this  life  breathes 
most  of  sorrow." 

"  Can  you  give  us  the  vision  ? "  said  one  of  the  company. 

"  Yes,  the  poem  is  called  '  The  Mother's  Vigil.'  The 
mother  is  shown  as  a  night-watcher  over  her  dying  child. 
The  poet  sees  what  the  mother  did  not: — 

....    "They  were  angels  come 
To  carry  the  young  spirit  to  its  God. 
One  o'er  the  babe-brow  bent,  and  gently  wav'd 
His  graceful  hand  above  it,  to  allay 
Its  burning  fever,  softly  fanning  back 
The  pale,  pale  drooping  curls,  that  scarce  had  form'd 
Their  slender  satin  threads  to  circles  yet. 
The  second  held  the  small  hand  tenderly 
Twin'd  in  his  own  cool,  fragrant  fingers,  soft 
As  Eden's  blossoms,  ofttimes  bathing  it 
With  balmy  kisses  ;  the  third  angel  touch'd  not 
The  dying  loveliness,  but  gently  fanned 
Th'  immortal  flame  within  it,  and  in  tones 
That  melted  as  they  gush'd,  warbled  a  song 
Of  everlasting  love. 


Sweet  eyes,  close,  close  in  sleep, 
No  longer  shall  ye  weep ; 
Death's  slumber,  damp  and  deep, 
Presses  your  lids  so  white ; 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  39I 

Pale  temple  of  the  infant  saint, 
Thy  pillars  shake,  thy  lamp  grows  faint, 
Dying  in  heaven's  light. 

Slumbering  soul,  arouse; 
Fann'd  by  the  waving  boughs 

Of  life's  immortal  tree; 
Shine  forth,  thou  spark  struck  from  God's  fire-harp  strings, 
Flash  to  the  fannings  of  our  bending  wings, 
And  mingle  in  the  flame  of  seraph  kings, 

In  the  deep  crystal  sea. 

Ah  !  thou  art  waking  now  ! 

Eternity's  broad  shade  hath  touch'd  thy  brow ; 

Awake,  beloved,  thy  angels  o'er  thee  bow ; 

Redemption's  lamb  new  born, 
Forsake  thy  trembling  shrine.     Ah  !  let  it  be 
To  thy  sad  mother  a  dear  gift  from  thee ; 
Why  dost  thou  shudder  ?     Leave  it,  thou  art  free ; 

This  is  thy  life's  first  morn. 

Start  not !  our  mighty  arms  are  twin'd  beneath  thee, 
Our  golden  feathers  white  and  warm  enwreath  thee, 

And  death  the  chain  will  sever 
That  links  thee  to  thy  cell ;  his  shaft  is  gold ; 
Fear  not,  'tis  wing'd  with  kisses,  though  so  cold. 
'Tis  past — the  pang  across  thy  breast  hath  roll'd : 

Now  thou  art  free  for  ever. 

Fall  into  our  arms,  and  wide  above  thee 

We  will  spread  a  canopy  of  wings ; 
We  will  bear  thee  home  to  those  that  love  thee, 

Where  the  cherub  choir  for  ever  sings. 

Sparkling  spirit !  now  thou,  shouting,  leapest 

Out  into  life's  everlasting  sea; 
Measure  with  the  heart  of  heaven  thou  keepest, 

And  thy  pulse  is  feverless  and  free. 

Spread  your  pinions,  angels,  wave  them  lightly; 

Ruffle  not  the  sacred,  sleeping  air; 
To  the  zenith  cleave  your  passage  brightly ; 

Seek  the  throne,  and  drop  the  jewel  there." 

"Thank  you!  thank  you!"  said  many  voices,  "who  is 
the  poet  ?  She  seems  to  have  been  among  angels,  and 
to  have  brought  back  some  of  their  tones  as  well  as  their 
spirit  of  song." 

"  The  poet  was  Emma  Tatham." 

Emma  Tatham,  at  the  time  she  wrote  "  The  Mother's 


3Q2  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Vigil,"  was  not  much  more  than  a  child  herself.  She  was 
but  seventeen.  She  was  the  daughter  of  an  upholsterer 
who  lived  on  Holborn  Hill.  At  first  sight,  she  would 
appear  no  other  than  a  little  small-featured  girl,  with  nothing 
about  her  face,  or  head,  or  manner,  or  bearing,  but  just 
what  English  taste  likes  to  see  in  a  pretty,  quiet,  intelligent, 
and  good-natured  English  maiden.  Perhaps  she  might  pass 
you  again  and  again,  and  you  would  never  think  that  you 
had  caught  the  eye  of  a  poet.  It  has  become  a  sort  of  creed 
that— 

The  poet's  eye,  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling, 

Doth  glance  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to  heaven ; 

But  you  would  never  see  the  "fine  frenzy  "  in  the  eye  of 
this  sweet  child  -,  no  wide  sweeping  "  glance  "3  but  simple, 
serious,  amiable  expression,  such  as  cheers  but  never  startles 
the  ordinary  life  of  homes  like  hers.  Who  would  look  to 
find  a  poet  where  she  was  found  ?  In  boyhood  it  used  to  be 
a  joy  to  wander  along  the  sea  beach,  as  near  as  might  be  to 
the  line  of  waves,  as  they  came  either  gently  curling  and 
unfolding  their  silver  fringes,  or  thundering  on  before  a 
heavy  ground  swell.  The  joy  was  to  search  for  little  rare 
and  delicate  shells  or  polished  gems  of  coloured  quartz. 
These  were  looked  for  along  by  the  ridges  of  tangled  weed, 
and  pebbles,  drift  wood,  and  wrecked  shell-fish,  which  the 
latest  tide  had  thrown  up.  But  now  and  then  the  richest 
treasures  would  be  come  upon  in  some  little  rock  hollow  or 
cranny,  or  all  but  hidden  behind  some  glittering  heap  of  sea- 
waste.  Something  like  this  it  is,  while  we  wander  among 
the  streets  of  London.  Gems  are  to  be  found  there ;  but 
not  generally  among  the  more  prominent,  pretentious,  and 
shiny,  though  slimy,  soaked,  and  unsound  entanglements  of 
social  material.  Rather,  they  are  lighted  on  when  least 
looked  for — on  spots  which  the  rambler  might  pass  and 
repass  all  his  life  long  without  suspecting  his  nearness 
to  things  so  "rich  and  rare."  There  is  a  pleasure  in  wan- 
dering through  the  street-scenery  of  London.     That  scenery 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  393 

is  remarkable.  Not  that  the  streets  are  picturesque ;  most 
of  them  have  lost  that  character.  Not  that  they  are  so 
grand,  except  in  the  vastness  of  their  grouping  •  nor  that 
they  are  so  pleasantly  varied  in  their  style — London  houses 
and  London  streets  have  somehow  kept  to  a  kind  of  same- 
ness, which  allows  any  one  ordinary  street  to  be  taken  as  a 
type  of  all  its  neighbours  ;  but  the  deep  interest  is  in  the 
associations  which  crowd  upon  the  mind,  as  you  foot  it  in 
and  out  through  the  dull  brick-lined  avenues  of  the  great 
artificial  wilderness.  In  one  locality  alone  :  who  can  pass 
in  front  of  the  Foundling  Hospital  on  to  Russell  Square,  by 
the  British  Museum,  through  Bloomsbury,  and  Theobald's 
Road,  and  in  and  out  around  Gray's  Inn,  without  walking 
in  company  with  such  men  as  Johnson  and  Handel ;  or  in 
association  with  the  learning  and  genius  and  science  of  ages  j 
or  without  thinking  of  Russells  and  Bedfords,  of  Shakespeare 
and  his  commentators  ;  of  Bacon  and  his  law,  philosophy, 
and  reverses ;  or  without  picturing  to  himself  some  of  the 
stirring  scenes  in  the  fashionable  and  public  life  of  old 
England  ?  And  yet,  one  might,  for  years,  have  passed  the 
"boundary  House"  of  the  Bedford  Estate  in  Theobald's 
Road,  on  his  way  down  through  that  quiet  little  path  to 
Holborn  which  affords  a  peep  into  Gray's  Inn  Garden, 
without  ever  supposing  that  in  that  unnoticeable,  ordinary 
street  dwelling  such  a  hallowed  genius  was  born  as  the 
author  of  the  "The  Dream  of  Pythagoras  "j  yet  so  it  was. 
In  that  house  Emma  Tatham  first  saw  the  light  of  this  world 
on  October  3 1,  1829.  The  house  would  become  distinguished 
to  the  lover  of  true  poetry  as  soon  as  it  was  known  to  be  the 
first  home  of  so  gifted  a  child.  One  might  stand  and  look, 
and  ask,  were  it  proper,  on  what  principle,  or  for  what  reason, 
should  such  an  ethereal  spirit  have  its  entrance  into  life  in 
that  dingy  depth  of  a  dingy  city.  Read  her  "Dream  of 
Pythagoras,"  and  the  wonder  will  deepen.  The  poem  takes 
its  rise  from  a  passage  in  the  Abbe  Raynal's  "  Travels  of 
Cyrus  " — "  The  soul  was  not  then  imprisoned  in  a  gross 
mortal  body,  as  it  is  now  :  it  was   united  to  a   luminous, 


394  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

heavenly,  ethereal  body,  which  served  it  as  a  vehicle  to  fly 
through  the  air,  rise  to  the  stars,  and  wander  over  all  the 
regions  of  immensity."  The  poet  casts  the  philosopher  into 
a  dream,  and  on  his  awaking  he  unfolds  the  teachings  of  his 
dream  to  his  disciples  : — 

'Twas  but  a  dream  ; 
And  yet  from  shadows  may  we  learn  the  shape 
And  substance  of  undying  truth.     Methought 
In  vision  I  beheld  the  first  beginning 
And  after  changes  of  my  soul.     Oh  joy  ! 
She  is  of  no  mean  origin,  but  sprang 
From  loftier  source  than  stars  or  sunbeams  know. 
Yea,  like  a  small  and  feeble  rill  that  bursts 
From  everlasting  mountain's  coronet, 
And  winding  through  a  thousand  labyrinths 
Of  darkness,  deserts,  and  drear  solitudes, 
Yet  never  dies,  but,  gaining  depth  and  power, 
Leaps  forth  at  last  with  uncontrollable  might 
Into  immortal  sunshine  and  the  breast 
Of  boundless  ocean — so  is  this  my  soul. 
I  felt  myself  spring  like  a  sunbeam  out 
From  the  Eternal,  and  my  first  abode 
Was  a  pure  particle  of  light,  wherein, 
Shrined  like  a  beam  in  crystal,  I  did  ride 
Gloriously  through  the  firmament  on  wings 
Of  floating  flowers,  ethereal  gems,  and  wreaths 
Of  vernal  rainbows.     I  did  paint  a  rose 
With  blush  of  day-dawn,  and  a  lily  bell 
With  mine  own  essence;  every  morn  I  dipt 
My  robe  in  the  full  sun,  then  all  day  long 
Shook  out  its  dew  on  earth,  and  was  content 
To  be  unmark'd,  unworshipp'd,  and  unknown, 
And  only  lov'd  of  Heaven.     Thus  did  my  soul 
Live  spotless  like  her  source.     'Twas  mine  to  illume 
The  palaces  of  nature,  and  explore 
Her  hidden  cabinets,  and,  raptur'd,  read 
Her  joyous  secrets.     Oh  return,  thou  life 
Of  purity  !     I  flew  from  mountain-top 
To  mountain,  building  rainbow-bridges  up — 
From  hill  to  hill,  and  over  boundless  seas  ; 
Ecstasy  was  such  life,  and  on  the  verge 
Of  ripe  perfection.     But,  alas!  I  saw 
And  envied  the  bold  lightning,  who  could  blind 
And  startle  nations,  and  I  longed  to  be 
A  conqueror  and  destroyer,  like  to  him. 
Methought  it  was  a  glorious  joy,  indeed, 
To  shut  and  open  heaven  as  he  did, 
And  have  the  thunders  for  my  retinue, 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  395 

And  tear  the  clouds,  and  blacken  palaces, 
And  in  a  moment  whiten  sky,  and  sea, 
And  earth  :  therefore  I  murmur'd  at  my  lot, 
Beautiful  as  it  was,  and  that  one  murmur 
Despoil'd  me  of  my  glory.     I  became 
A  dark  and  tyrant  cloud,  driven  by  the  storm, 
Too  earthly  to  be  bright,  too  hard  of  heart 
To  drop  in  mercy  on  the  thirsty  land ; 
And  so  no  creature  lov'd  me. 

The  dreamer  then  goes  through  all  his  dark  experiences  as 
a  cloud;  melts  at  last  into  a  desert's  heart,  and  springs  in 
the  form  of  a  wild  flower.  Scorched  by  the  sun,  a  dew 
drop  falls  into  his  "burning  bosom; "  his  spirit  rushes  into 
it,  and  he  becomes  a  dew  drop  j  then  caught  into  the  firma- 
ment, he  is  hung  in  a  rainbow  3  shook  by  the  wind  into  the 
depths  of  ocean,  he  sees  all  the  mysteries,  beauties,  and 
grandeurs  of  the  great  deep.  Ocean  tosses  him  among  the 
great  mountains,  and  he  witnesses  the  wild  and  majestic 
storms  of  the  elements.  He  then  sprang  up  winged,  and 
new  as  lightning  "across  the  ocean,"  flashed  among  the 
tempests  of  the  hills  ; 

Glanced 
Upon  the  mighty  city  in  her  sleep, 
Pierced  all  her  mysteries  with  one  swift  look ; 

then  rose  to  "learn  a  loftier  lesson,"  and  became  a  star;  is 
called  to  obey  "  the  spirit  of  wisdom  j"  is  tempted  to  aim  at 
being  a  god  unto  himself,  but  resisting  the  tempter,  he  sings 
with  the  stars.  Again  he  falls,  to  learn  "  a  lesson  more 
severe;"  is  cast  into  "hot  fires,"  to  be  taught  submission, 
and  being  victorious,  is  snatched  away  : — 

To  yet  another  lesson,  I  became 

A  date  tree  in  the  desert,  to  pour  out 

My  life  in  dumb  benevolence,  and  full 

Obedience  to  each  wind  of  Heaven  that  blew. 

The  traveller  came — I  gave  him  all  my  shade, 

Asking  for  no  reward  ;  the  lost  bird  flew 

For  shelter  to  my  branches,  and  I  hid 

Her  nest  among  my  leaves ;  the  sunbeams  ask'd 

To  rest  their  hot  and  weary  feet  awhile 

On  me,  and  I  spread  out  every  arm 


396  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

To  embrace  them,  fanning  them  with  all  my  plumes. 

Beneath  my  shade  the  dying  pilgrim  fell 

Praying  for  water ;  I  cool  dewdrops  caught 

And  shook  them  on  his  lip  ;  I  gave  my  fruit 

To  strengthen  the  faint  stranger,  and  I  sang 

Soft  echoes  to  the  winds,  living  in  nought 

For  self;  but  in  all  things  for  others'  good. 

The  storm  arose,  and  patiently  I  bore 

And  yielded  to  his  tyranny ;  I  bow'd 

My  tenderest  foliage  to  his  angry  blast, 

And  suffer'd  him  to  tear  it  without  sigh, 

And  scatter  on  the  waste  my  all  of  wealth. 

The  billowing  sands  o'erwhelmed  me,  yet  I  stood 

Silent  beneath  them  ;  so  they  rolled  away, 

And  rending  up  my  roots,  left  me  a  wreck 

Upon  the  wilderness. 

'Twas  thus,  my  sons, 
I  dream'd  my  spirit  wander'd,  till  at  length, 
As  desolate  I  mourn'd  my  helpless  woe, 
My  guardian  angel  took  me  to  his  heart, 
And  thus  he  said  :  "  Spirit,  well  tried  and  true  ! 
Conqueror  I  have  made  thee,  and  prepar'd 
For  human  life  ;  behold  !  I  wave  the  palm 
Of  immortality  before  thine  eyes  ; 
'Tis  thine ;  it  shall  be  thine,  if  thou  aright 
Acquit  thee  of  the  part  that  yet  remains, 
And  teach  what  thou  hast  learn'd." 

This  said,  he  smiled, 
And  gently  laid  me  in  my  mother's  arms. 

As  the  reader  is  borne  along,  sometimes  breathless,  on  the 
pinions  of  this  young  enthusiastic  genius,  he  feels  that  the 
flight,  though  adventurous,  is  vigorously  and  unerringly- 
maintained.  "  In  heaven  and  on  earth,  in  the  seas,  and  in 
all  deep  places,"  the  poet's  imagination  sweeps  along  exult- 
ing in  its  might,  but  moving  with  easy  freedom,  as  if  there 
were  no  region  of  ideal  beauty,  grandeur,  awfulness,  or 
purity  in  which  her  spirit  was  not  at  home.  Her  command 
of  expression,  her  luxuriance  of  imagery,  her  natural  mastery 
of  measure,  the  rich  music  of  her  rhythm,  the  compass  as 
well  as  clearness  of  her  conceptions,  the  exquisite  spirituality 
of  her  taste,  her  lovely  naturalness,  and  simple  purity  of  aim, 
all  combine  to  awaken  the  question,  how  should  it  be  that 
all  this,  combined  in  one  lovely  young  soul,  should  spring 
up  to  charm  us  from  a  dim  apartment  in  the  foggy  centre  of 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  39/ 

a  crowded  city  ?  The  bright  genius  and  unaffected  and  pure 
taste  of  Emma  Tatham  seem  to  have  little,  or  nothing,  in 
common  with  her  native  street ;  but,  it  may  be,  she  owed 
something  to  the  native  seat  of  her  forefathers.  From  her 
ancestors  and  their  surroundings,  she  might  have  inherited 
something  of  the  wild,  the  free,  the  expansive,  the  vigorous, 
the  simple,  and  the  pure.  The  young  poet  was  never  more 
than  a  hundred  miles  out  of  London  in  her  life.  She  had 
never  seen  nature  in  her  entire  inviolate  purity  and  freedom, 
and  yet  her  imagination  was  familiar  with  it ;  and  all  she 
had  of  the  ideal  was  as  much  in  harmony  with  the  realities 
which  to  her  outer  vision  were  unseen  as  if  she  had  been 
born  where  nature  most  strongly  and  tenderly  courts  the 
sympathy  of  human  souls.  Her  tender  allusions  to  the 
home  of  her  fathers  show  that  she  felt  the  mysterious  reality 
of  her  mental  and,  perhaps,  moral  inheritance.  Her  dis- 
tinctive character  may  have  taken  its  shaping  not  only  under 
the  influence  of  her  immediate  parents,  but  from  influences 
in  harmony  with  theirs  coming  from  farther  back  on  the 
family  line,  and  from  the  natural  surroundings  and  primitive 
life  of  the  old  family  home. 

There  are  few  scenes  in  which  boldness,  massiveness, 
wildness,  and  expansion  are  found  in  more  remarkable  com- 
bination, with  the  peaceful  and  the  picturesque,  than  the 
dales  of  northern  Yorkshire.  There,  the  soul  always  has 
before  its  eyes  some  pure  impress  of  Divine  power  or  loveli- 
ness 5  and  may  realise,  by  turns,  the  loftiest  pleasures  of 
solitude,  and  the  sweetest  joys  of  rural  life.  To  pass  from 
some  dim  quarter  of  a  dingy  city,  by  a  rapid  transition,  into 
those  northern  dales  is  to  quaff  refreshment  and  inspiration 
which  seem  to  have  life-long  virtue.  The  night  can  never  be 
forgotten  when,  having  left  the  city  amidst  its  business  stir, 
two  ramblers,  in  pursuit  of  geological  and  antiquarian  objects, 
found  themselves,  in  the  quiet  evening,  lounging  amidst  the 
ruins  of  Bolton  Abbey  on  the  banks  of  the  Wharf.  The 
evening's  sojourn  in  that  delicious  retreat  seemed  to  prepare 
us  for  exploring  the  wilder  recesses  of  the  great  limestone 


398  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

water-shed  above  us.      We  started  on  our  way  north,  some- 
times walking  and  sometimes  wheeling  it,  as  best  we  could. 
We  breathed  the  air  of  Barden  Moor,  and  pressed  on,  think- 
ing of  the  "  White  Roe  of  Rilston/'  courting  the  waters  of 
the  Wharf  till  we  left  them  to  their  own  music  in  Langstroth- 
dale    Chase,    and  found  our  way  up    through   the    rugged 
pastorage  of  Bishop's  Dale,  paying  homage,  as  we  marked 
them,  to  the  old  hills  which  had  for  so  many  ages  kept  watch 
and  ward  over  the  Yore  Valley.     The  glories  of  Wensley 
Dale  filled  us  with    song,  and  we  went  on  our  rambling- 
march,  often  stepping  to  our  own  music.     Sometimes  we 
lingered  to  taste  choice  bits  of  beauty,  such  as  we  found  at 
Aysgarth — a  fine  old  bridge  spanning  the  river,  several  water- 
falls, or  "  forces,"  giving  a  charm  to  both  eye  and  ear  j  under 
or  over  the  hoary  arch  of  the  bridge,  a  richly  wooded  abrupt 
steep,  coming  down  to  the  water's  edge;  and  then   by   a 
graceful  curve  wending  round  to  the  right,  the  river  losing- 
itself  in  deep  dark  foliage — all  combined  to  form  one  of  those 
natural  pictures  which  hush  the  soul  into  dreams  of  undying 
beauty.     Then  following  the  course  of  the  river,   we  met 
with   an    invitation   to  rest   in  the   venerable   presence    of 
Penhill.      We   were    in   West    Witton,    Emma    Tatham's 
ancestral  home ;  an  old  village  straggling  for  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  along  the  mountain  shelving,  about  halfway  up  from 
the  bed  of  the  stream,  high  enough  for  us  to  enjoy  a  long- 
glance  up  the  dale  towards  the  hill-tops  of  Westmoreland — a 
glorious  scene — and  down  for  miles  towards  old  Middelham, 
where  Richard  of  York  began  his  crooked  life,  on  to  the  blue 
heights  of  Cleveland,  and  then  the  valley  beneath,  with  old 
Bolton  Castle  amidst  its  rich  foliage,  and  old  Redmire,  where 
Wesley  used  to  halt  on  his  way  to  Wensley.      Here  on  this 
hill  side,  with  these  scenes  at  command,  and  with  oppor- 
tunities of   chit-chat  with    dales-men,.,  peeps   into   pleasant 
homes,  and  a  few  entertainments  on  the  simple  but  delicious 
luxuries  of  that  healthful  dale,  we  began  to  feel  as  if  we 
knew  something  more   about  the   spring   head   of   Emma 
Tatham's  genius — a  genius  which  at  one  moment  takes  a 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  399 

sweep  with  unflagging  wing  through  the  higher  regions  of 
poetic  creation,  and  at  another,  with  graceful  ease,  lights 
amidst  the  simple,  tender,  and  unrestrained  amenities  and 
endearments  of  human  life.  Who  could  help  thinking  that 
she  owed  much  to  her  Wensley  Dale  blood,  and  to  the 
healthy  inspiration  of  that  natural  scenery  with  which  her 
ancestors  had  been  familiar.  Though  born  far  away  from 
such  scenes,  her  genial,  sensitive,  and  reverent  spirit  seemed 
from  her  childhood  to  be  feeling  after  them.  This  is 
touchingly  shown  in  the  fact  that  the  first  pluming  of  the 
young  poet's  wings  was  for  a  flight  to  Wensley  Dale  and 
West  Ditton,  the  family  home  of  the  Tathams.  Amidst  the 
murky  scenes  of  Holborn  Hill,  this  genius  claimed  familiarity 
with  old  Penhill  of  the  Dale,  and  proved  itself  in  its  first 
essay  to  be  as  truthful  and  free  as  the  dales  to  which  it  felt 
itself  to  be  akin,  though  as  yet  untrimmed,  homely,  and 
child-like.     This  is  one  of  her  first  pencil  sketches — 

In  Wensley  Dale  there  lies  a  village  sweet, 

Where  meadow,  mountain,  tree,  and  river  meet ; 

Majestic  Penhill  there  erects  his  head, 

And  Ure  sweeps  proudly  o'er  his  rocky  bed  ; 

Fair  fields,  and  garth,  hollies  and  poplars  there, 

With  modest  flowers  and  high-grown  hedges  share. 

There  lived,  not  long  ago,  a  noble  man — 

Surpass  him,  British  Islands,  if  ye  can  ! 

Head  of  the  Tatham  family,  which  same 

Has  ever  justly  borne  a  virtuous  fame  ; 

A  gentle  manly  soul,  a  heavenward  brow, 

Such  are  its  true  distinctions  even  now. 

These  give  a  dignity,  yet  nobler  far 

Than  is  conferred  by  coronet  and  star ; 

And  if,  in  future  years,  the  Tatham's  heir 

Shall  cease  this  high  inheritance  to  share, 

No  matter,  though  he  be  in  name  their  head, 

The  true  old  Tatham  family  is  dead. 

She  records,  with  beautiful  simplicity,  her  family's  obliga- 
gation  to  Methodism.  Her  grandfather  heard  the  first 
Methodist  sermon  that  was  preached  in  his  native  village 
under  an  ash  tree ;  and  Emma  alludes  to  the  result  of  that 
service  as  seen  in  her  grandfather's  simple,  pious,  and  well- 
ordered  household — a  household  of  which  one  whom  she 


400  THE    rOETS  OF   METHODISM. 

calls  "  Mark  "  was  a  good  and  happy  member.  She  play- 
fully pictures  the  evening  circle  around  the  old  hearth,  and 
then  says — 

The  mother  watched  with  love's  most  gracious  pride, 

The  sire  would  sometimes  chuckle,  sometimes  chide, 

Meanwhile  good  Mark  looked  on  and  always  smiled; 

His  heart  was  young  and  light  as  any  child. 

Time  had  passed  softly  o'er  him.     Though  his  face 

Was  bright  with  hoary  patriarchal  grace, 

His  soul  was  youthful  still,  brimful  of  love 

To  all  on  earth  below  and  all  above. 

Sunshine  was  in  his  look  where'er  he  came; 

Each  spirit  caught  and  owned  the  genial  flame. 

O,  palaces,  such  joys  ye  seldom  know, 

Though  music  in  you  breathe  and  nectar  flow. 

Everybody  who  has  spent  the  years  of  early  life  amidst  the 
freshness  of  wild  granite  hills,  with  their  copsey  hollows  and 
clear  valley  streams,  orchard  slopes,  and  pure  green  meadows, 
learns  to  feel  that  everything  in  nature  looks  clear  and  pure 
where  the  dear  old  granite  shows  itself.  And  when  one  has 
learnt  to  look  from  hill-side  to  sea,  and  from  sea  to  his  own 
tide-washed  birth-place,  and  everywhere  to  rind  freshness, 
simplicity,  transparent  life,  and  trustiness  of  heart,  he  is  in 
danger  of  being  painfully  surprised,  and  oppressed  with  a 
feeling  of  contamination,  when,  for  the  first  time,  he  enters 
on  the  smutty  scenes  and  artificial  life  of  a  great  city.  The 
unveiling  of  men  and  things  to  him  will  prove  revulsive  to 
his  senses,  while  it  shakes,  if  not  shatters,  his  long-cherished 
reverence  for  what  he  had  known  only  by  repute.  Many  a 
man  of  simple  faith  has  become  an  unbeliever  in  purity  when 
admitted  to  a  great  centre  of  action,  and  allowed  to  have  his 
first  peep  behind  the  scenes  of  sophisticated  character  and 
life.  Many  a  young  Christian  has  had  his  own  truthfulness 
broken  at  seeing,  for  the  first  time,  the  untruthfulness  of 
those  whom,  while  looked  at  in  the  distance,  he  had  been 
taught  to  revere. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  one  of  this  class,  "that  I  ever  went  to 
London.  There  I  lost  my  own  pure  simplicity,  and  there  I 
lost  my  confidence  in  the  pure  simplicity  of  others.  Never- 
theless, I  have  been  somewhat  corrected.  I  found  exceptions, 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  4OT 

and  learnt  at  last  that  even  there,  amidst  all  the  difficulty 
with  which  true  nature  kept  herself  alive,  and  with  all  the 
difficulty  of  knowing  when  humanity  has  its  true  face  on,  and 
when  not,  I  have  met  with  gems  of  character  as  pure  and  as 
free  from  flaw  as  I  ever  now  expect  to  find  on  this  side  Para- 
dise. One  night  I  had,  with  a  companion,  left  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  had  walked  towards  the  City,  till  sick,  weary, 
and  footsore,  I  was  obliged  to  stop  on  Holborn  Hill,  and  rest 
myself  against  a  lamp-post.  Everything  in  London  appeared 
to  me  to  wear  a  dirty  veil.  True,  my  circle  of  observation 
was  as  yet  but  small  j  such,  however,  as  it  was,  it  proved  un- 
favourable to  the  culture  of  faith  either  human  or  divine. 
And  as  to  love,  I  was  out  of  love  with  everything  and  every- 
body, myself  included.  Had  I  known  what  I  discovered 
some  time  afterwards,  I  should  have  been  saved  from  further 
indulgence  of  sceptical  thought  and  feeling.  How  little  did 
I  think  that  night,  as  I  was  leaning  ready  to  faint  under  a 
sense  of  depression  on  my  whole  man — a  depression  which 
seemed  like  the  effect  of  a  gathering  furnace  heat  around  one 
— how  little  did  I  think  that  I  was  fuming  just  under  the 
window  of  a  room  in  which,  perhaps  at  that  moment,  one  of 
the  purest,  freshest,  most  rarely  gifted  and  beautifully  simple 
spirits  that  ever  lived  to  glorify  God  by  the  consecration  of  its 
poetic  genius  was  courting  the  inspiration  under  whose 
power  she  had,  not  long  before,  with  a  voice  calm,  clear,  and 
musical  in  its  modulations,  read  to  her  Christian  pastor  some 
of  her  first  poetic  essays.  Yes,  there  I  was  on  the  pavement 
under  that  room  over  the  shop^where  the  tuneful  and  cultured 
soul  of  that  minister  had  drunk  in  Emma  Tatham's  rich, 
thrilling,  love-inspiring  appeal  on  behalf  of  God's  Love.  O 
that  I  could  have  heard  it  that  night !  But  I  often  live  that 
night  over  again,  and  feel  as  if  the  words  came  to  me  in  my 
depression  on  that  old  Holborn  Hill  : — 

"  Be  thou  rich  or  poor, 
Joyful  or  sorrowful ;  in  cities  loud, 
Or  cottage  lonely,  by  the  surging  shore  ; 
Amidst  the  mountains,  'neath  the  waving  palms  ; 


4-02  THE    POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Among  the  citron  groves,  in  the  dark  wilds 
Of  pathless  forests,  or  the  heaving  deep  ; 
Far  in  the  icy  zone,  or  compass'd  round 
With  the  hot  equinoctial — love  is  there. 
Love  omnipresent  still  surrounds  thy  paths, 
Meets  thee  where'er  thou  goest ;  He  hath  thrown 
His  arms  wide  as  the  shadow  of  the  Cross 
Extends,  and  from  that  infinite  embrace, 
Only  by  sin  canst  thou  thy  soul  exclude. 
Yes,  God  is  love  ;  this  priceless  truth  alone 
Is  balm  for  all  thy  sickness. 

"  We  had  not  left  Holborn  before  I  knew  what  was  partly 
the  cause  of  my  depression  and  faintness.  A  heavy  storm  of 
some  sort  was  coining.  My  sensitiveness  to  some  silent 
influences  of  nature  had  been  touched ;  I  had  felt  precursive 
tokens.  Now,  however,  the  tremulous  gaslights  indicated 
the  tempest's  approach.  Nor  was  it  too  dark  for  us  to  see 
the  sailor's  dread,  '  weather-dogs,'  coursing  with  growing 
speed  in  advance.  Now  and  then,  too,  there  seemed  to  be 
shrill  voices  in  the  distance,  foreboding  disaster.  As  we 
mounted  the  hill  towards  Newgate,  there  were  moanings  and 
howlings  around  the  dark  walls,  as  if  the  spirits  of  all  the 
crime,  and  misery,  and  conscience-horror,  which  the  old 
prison  had  ever  witnessed,  were  coming  to  wreak  vengeance 
on  its  present  generation  of  inmates.  We  quickly  got  into 
our  shelter  in  Newgate  Street.  The  storm  was  now  up  j 
and  '  the  powers  of  the  air '  came  on  in  terrible  force. 
Ours  was  a  watchful  night,  spent  in  alternations  of  painful 
suspense  and  overpowering  awe.  Little  did  we  think  that, 
while  we  were  passing  the  night  thus,  there  had  been 
a  young  girl  in  an  upper  room  in  Holborn  who,  under 
kindling  inspiration,  was  pouring  out  from  her  raptured  soul 
a  high-toned  'Tempest  Hymn,'  in  harmony  with  the  grand 
( accompaniment  of  the  hurricane!'  Years  passed  j 
Holborn  Hill  was  gone,  buried  under  the  feet  of  a  generation 
having  neither  strength,  taste,  nor  time,  for  anything  but 
level  roads  ;  and  the  young  Holborn  genius  herself  had  fled 
for  ever  to  a  holier  and  more  peaceful  hill ;  before  I  knew 
that,  that  night-storm  in   1846  had  given  birth  to  harmonies 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  40  3 

which  now  serve  to  brighten  and  hallow  my  recollections  of 
it.  The  lofty  hymn  which  that  Christian  maiden  composed 
while  the  anthem-peal  of  the  tempest  still  rung  in  her  soul, 
and  which  she  read  with  such  hushing  effect  to  her  Methodist 
pastor  in  the  little  Holborn  parlour,  has  given  me  an  ear  for 
storm  music,  and  I  often  sing  with  Emma  Tatham  when 
the  wind  rises  : — 

"  Almighty  God  !  whose  hand  of  power  the  raging-  winds  can  tame, 
The  mighty  tempest  echoes  with  the  thunder  of  Thy  Name  ; 
I  hear  him  through  the  city  rush,  lifting  his  voice  on  high  ; 
Dark  terror  rides  his  stormy  winge,  and  pallid  death  is  nigh. 
'Tis  night,  deep  night!  the  city  sleeps,  and  listens  in  her  sleep 
To  thy  gigantic  voice,  O  storm  !  to  thy  tremendous  sweep. 
Thou  rollest  o'er  her  countless  roofs,  in  glory  wild  and  free ; 
And  I,  a  trembling  watcher,  am  alone  with  God  and  thee. 
Who  walks  upon  thy  boundless  wings,  that  shake  the  land  and  ocean  ? 
Who  speaks  in  thy  stupendous  voice,  and  guides  thy  mighty  motion  ? 

0  God  of  night,  and  storm,  and  power !  O  God,  all  praise  above ! 
Hear  me,  great  God  of  majesty  !  hear  me,  great  God  of  love  1 

1  worship  Thee  in  solitude,  I  worship  Thee  in  fear ; 

But  the  sighing  of  a  lonely  heart  Thou  wilt  not  scorn  to  hear. 

I  listen  to  Thy  awful  voice,  I  feel  Thy  weight  of  power ; 

I  bend  my  soul  beneath  Thy  hand,  in  this  tremendous  hour  ! 

Yet  art  Thou  not  my  Father  still,  though  storm  and  darkness  reign  ? 

Who,  in  all  tempests  past,  hast  saved,  wilt  Thou  not  save  again  ? 

Praise  to  Thee,  high  Omnipotent !  even  now  methinks  I  hear, 

Amidst  the  blast,  the  angel-song  around  Thy  glory  clear ; 

And  countless  choirs  above  the  stars,  in  pealing  chant  sublime, 

Are  praising  Thee  in  solemn  joy,  high  o'er  this  stormy  clime. 

Hark  !  the  loud  hallelujah  shout,  bursting  from  throne  to  throne, 

From  star  to  star,  from  sun  to  sun,  in  everlasting  tone ; 

The  saints  adore  th'  exalted  Lamb,  and  all  the  heavens  reply : 

Could  I  but  hear  the  blissful  strain,  and  join  the  glorious  cry ! 

Even  the  tempest  as  he  roars — the  night  winds  as  they  roll  — 

Seem  thund'ring  forth  Thy  lofty  praise:  praise  is  creation's  soul. 

Is  not  a  spirit  in  the  storm,  and  on  the  blast  a  voice? 

Hark  !  the  giant  wind  his  anthem  sings :  earth,  tremble  and  rejoice  ! 

And  listen  ;  ocean  far  away  has  caught  the  lofty  key, 

He  is  thundering  through  his  fathomless  depths  majestic  psalmody  ; 

His  seething  waves  are  mad  with  bliss;  they  rise  in  glory  crown 'd, 

Then  sink  into  the  grand  abyss  in  reverence  profound. 

Stand  on  yon  lonely  bark  and  gaze — look  round  on  every  hand; 

She  is  rolling  out  in  the  raving  deep,  a  thousand  miles  from  land, 

Rocking  over  the  mountain  heights,  cleaving  the  waves  asunder, 

She  reels  along  her  terrible  road  in  darkness,  death,  and  thunder. 

Hark !  the  surging  forests  roar  aloud,  th'  eternal  mountains  shake, 

The  list'ning  stars  in  solemn  strain  the  boundless  chorus  take, 


404  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

And  swelling,  as  they  flash  and  fly,  the  everlasting-  song, 

Infinite  hallelujah  soars  from  every  burning  throng. 

The  storm  makes  man  to  worship  :  rise,  sleeper,  rise !  and  see 

All  holy  things  and  spirits  belov'd  are  praising  God,  but  thee. 

Jehovah,  we  adore  Thee,  thron'd  the  heaven  of  heavens  above. 

Speak  to  us  with  Thy  solemn  storm,  but  let  Thy  voice  be  love. 

Come  not  in  anger,  Mighty  One  !  receive  our  lowly  prayer, 

O  God,  most  high  and  merciful !  O  God,  Thy  people  spare ! 

"We  are  guilty,  we  are  sinful,  yet  the  spotless  Lamb  hath  bled ; 

The  lightnings  of  Thy  justice  fell  on  His  most  lowly  head. 

Then  spare  us,  Lord  -,  send  forth  Thy  peace,  Thy  calm-creating  Dove  ; 

Speak  to  us  wTith  Thy  solemn  storm,  but  let  Thy  voice  be  love. 

Earth !  rise  and  join  thy  sister  stars,  roll  shining  on  thy  way, 

And,  as  thou  rollest,  beam  as  bright,  and  sing  as  loud  as  they, 

The  new  creation  dawneth,  and  the  Lamb  of  God  shall  reign ; 

The  Prince  of  Peace  shall  triumph  over  war,  and  death,  and  pain, 

All  glory  to  Jehovah  !  our  Father,  Saviour,  King  ! 

Shout,  shout,  triumphant  hurricane  !  stars,  saints,  and  angels,  sing  ! 

All  glory  to  Jehovah  !     Let  creation  swell  with  song ! 

Praise,  power,  and  worship  infinite  to  Him  alone  belong  ! 

Glory  to  Christ,  our  Saviour !     Jesus,  Thy  name  we  bless, 

And  give  our  lowly  hearts  to  Thee  in  faith  and  thankfulness; 

The  storms  of  life — the  storms  that  rage  in  each  unhallow'd  soul — 

Dissolving  in  Thy  potent  breath,  to  cradled  calm  shall  roll, 

As  when  on  old  Gennesaret  the  Tempest  heard  Thy  will, 

And  wildest  winds  and  waves  confess'd  Thy  mighty  '  Peace,  be  still !' 

Oh,  when  our  heart  is  overwhelmed,  when  flesh  and  spirit  fail, 

"When  terrors  seize  the  trembling  breast,  and  sin  and  hell  assail, 

Compassionate  our  wretchedness,  let  mercy  be  Thy  will, 

Speak  peace  unto  the  trembling  soul,  and  bid  the  storm  be  still." 

The  young  poet's  scene  of  life  was  changed.  She  had 
found  her  way  to  Margate,  old  Margate  !  There  is  a  vene- 
rable charm  about  the  name  still.  Old  Margate !  Yes,  there 
is  still  something  that  properly  bears  the  name.  Quaint 
old  streets,  no  two  alike,  scarcely  two  houses  alike  :  why 
should  they  be  ?  Why  should  human  dwellings  follow  the 
modern  fashion  of  taking  rank,  like  bricks  ranged  for  drying 
in  the  brick-field,  in  violation  of  both  nature  and  art  ?  No, 
let  old  Margate  form  itself  in  its  more  natural  way  ;  and  so 
it  has.  Its  homes,  of  all  shapes  and  sizes,  seem  to  have 
followed  one  another,  as  natural  herds  do,  in  irregular  line, 
and,  when  so  disposed,  have  formed  into  circles  or  squares 
to  have  a  look  at  one  another.  Into  one  of  these  variously 
disposed  dwellings  Emma   Tatham   was,  while  yet  a  girl, 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  405 

brought  by  her  parents,  in  hope  of  securing  for  her  and 
themselves  more  healthy  life.  This,  perhaps,  was  a  mistake. 
In  the  autumn  of  1847,  however,  she  was  an  inmate  of 
No.  7,  Addington  Square.  It  was  called  a  square,  but  it 
was  in  mode  somewhat  after  one  of  nature's  fantastic 
groups.  The  various  homes  had  taken  position  as  if  they 
were  not  quite  at  home  with  each  other,  or  as  if,  in  a  sudden 
fear,  they  had  turned  back  to  back ;  while  their  nearest 
neighbours,  also,  standing  at  accidental  distances  from  each 
other,  continued  to  gaze  at  the  curious  posture  their  neigh- 
bours had  assumed.  From  the  old-fashioned  bow  windows 
of  her  little  abode  our  young  poet  could  see  little  but  an 
apology  for  a  garden  on  the  other  side  of  the  half-formed 
road.  There  was  a  larger  railed  garden  adjoining  her  house, 
but  she  had  no  look-out  upon  that.  She  had  access,  of 
course,  to  the  pier,  or  to  the  tame  sands  at  the  foot  of  the 
cliffs,  or  perpendicular  chalk  sea-walls,  with  their  natural 
capping  of  shallow  soil  and  green  turf.  She  could  pace 
the  summits  of  these  cliffs,  and  look  out  at  the  stretch  of 
sea,  sometimes  blue,  sometimes  drab,  and  sometimes  both. 
Or  she  could  wander  on  the  background  of  undulating  corn- 
fields and  pasture,  marred  by  no  roadside  weeds,  nor  varie- 
gated by  turfy  common  3  intersected  by  ways  not  very 
shady,  or  streamlets  tinged  with  leaiiness,  winding  their 
way  towards  the  little  gullies  in  the  chalk  cliffs.  This  was 
a  relief  from  the  great  city,  a  great  change  from  Holborn 
Hill,  and  afforded  some  fresh  excitement  for  a  young  spirit 
longing  for  nearer  communion  with  veritable  nature.  The 
soul  of  the  young  songster  luxuriated  in  what  there  was 
of  nature,  and  was  "rejoiced,"  as  she  said,  "to  come 
and  dwell  with  my  beloved  ocean,  and  flowers,  and  cliffs,  and 
clouds,  and  stars,  and  storms,  and  sunsets."  It  was  here  that 
she  poured  out  some  effusions  sweetly  characteristic  of  her 
muse.  New  objects  called  forth  new  manifestations  of  the 
pure  naturalness,  jubilant  freedom,  and  loving  simplicity  of 
her  genius.  Here  it  was  that  she  gave  forth  her  melody 
"To  the  Sea  Bird":— 


406  THE   POETS   OF   METHODISM. 

Oh,  that  thou  hadst  but  a  soul,  sea-bird ! 

As  thou  swimmest  in  heaven  so  high, 
A  spirit  to  know  how  thy  white  wings  glow, 
A  spirit  to  feast  on  the  scenes  below, 

And  the  waves  of  the  sparkling  sky. 

Oh,  that  thou  hadst  but  a  soul  to  feel 

How  the  sunbeams  have  rob'd  and  crown'd  thee ; 
How  the  earth  to  thee  doth  her  beauty  reveal, 
How  the  ocean  doth  spread  and  the  heavens  unseal 
Their  secrets  of  glory  around  thee ! 

Oh,  that  there  were  but  a  heart  to  beat 

To  the  sweep  of  those  graceful  pinions  ! 
A  soul  to  ride  in  a  chariot  so  fleet, 
To  float  in  the  track  of  the  sunbeams'  feet, 
And  revel  in  light's  dominions. 

Oh,  that  my  soul  for  a  moment  might  be 

To  thy  beautiful  wings  up-caught ! 
That  I  might  on  a  midsummer  morning  flee 
Through  many  bright  forms  over  forest  and  sea, 

As  Pythagoras  wildly  taught. 

I  would  borrow,  king  eagle,  thy  loftiest  wing, 
And  soar  where  no  eye-beam  could  follow ; 
A  carol  of  praise  I  would  joyfully  sing 
In  the  breast  of  the  beautiful  bird  of  the  spring, 
In  a  lonely  and  moonlighted  hollow. 

Then  I  would  hide  in  the  skylark's  throat, 

And  descend  on  the  rainbow's  arch, 
On  the  clouds  of  the  storm  I  would  fearlessly  float 
And  rock  on  the  winds  an  invisible  boat, 
And  follow  the  thunder's  march. 

Then  would  I  change  to  a  drop  of  the  spray, 

And  dance  on  the  wings  of  the  gale, 
Mad  as  the  hurricane  whirl  on  my  way, 
Over  fathomless  valleys  and  mountains  at  play, 
And  over  the  breakers  pale. 

Out  in  the  ocean  at  wild  midnight, 

A  thousand  leagues  from  shore, 
My  spirit  should  dance  round  the  arches  of  white, 
When  the  steeds  of  the  tempest  are  raving  with  fright, 

When  the  heav'ns  and  the  deep  do  roar. 

I  would  then  be  transform'd  to  the  wand'ring  gale 

And  chisel  the  broken  waves, 
Gloriously  swelling  the  mission-bark's  sail, 
Flushing  the  cheek  of  the  pining  and  pale, 

And  sighing  o'er  far-away  graves. 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  4O/ 

I'd  whisper  of  hope  to  some  sorrowful  ear, 

And  say  to  the  slave,  "  Thou  art  free  !" 
I  would  catch  on  my  wing  every  sweet  I  came  near, 
And  then  fly  away  home,  O  my  own  mother  dear ! 

To  bring  all  my  treasures  to  thee. 


There  is  nothing  which  more  tended)'-  indicates  God's 
divine  sense  of  the  beautiful  than  his  sometimes  evident 
choice  of  a  fitting  scene  for  the  close  of  a  mortal  life.  How- 
happy  it  seems  for  God  to  choose  the  transition  scene  of  a 
pilgrim  soul's  departure  in  accordance  with  the  pilgrim's 
genius  and  taste,  and  as  near  and  like  as  possible  in  beauty 
and  peacefulness  to  the  heavenly  inheritance.  Happy  is  it, 
too,  for  the  pilgrim  to  feel  that  the  beauty  of  the  river  bank, 
on  the  one  side,  serves  only  to  enrich  his  anticipations  of 
the  more  lovely  retreats  on  the  other. 

"  What  a  paradise  you  have  here  !  "  said  Lady ,  as 

she  first  caught  the  view  which  opens  in  front  of  a  gentle- 
man's cottage  residence  in  the  West  of  England ;  "we 
have  nothing  like  this  on  any  of  our  estates.  I  envy  you," 
she  continued,  turning  to  the  venerable  owner  of  the  paradise. 

"  I  am  glad  you  like  it,"  was  his  response. 

"  Like  it  !  Yes,  indeed  I  would  leave  all  we  have  to  enjoy 
life  in  this  retreat.  I  wish — but  no — on  second  thought,  I 
should  not  wish  to  live  here.  I  should  be  afraid  of  losing  it. 
I  fear  I  should  be  unwilling  to  leave  it." 

"  But  it  may  be  enjoyed  as  a  type  of  something  better  to 
come,  may  it  not  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  There  it  is.  I  am  not  in  a  condition  to  think 
pleasantly  of  anything  beyond  it." 

At  this  moment  the  lady  caught  sight  of  tears  starting  from 
the  eyes  of  a  woman  who  was  in  attendance. 

"  My  good  woman,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  in 
trouble  ?  " 

"No,  my  lady.  1  beg  pardon.  I  couldn't  help  my 
tears !  " 


"  Why  do  you  weep,  then  ?  " 

"  Partly  because  your  ladyship  can't  think  pleasantly  of  a 


408  THE  POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

better  world  than  this,  and  partly  for  joy.  God  is  so  good  to 
me  as  to  keep  my  paradise  till  I  come,  and  while  I  am  here, 
to  let  me  look  at  this  place  every  day,  as  a  sort  of  picture  of 
what  He  will  give  me  as  my  own  by-and-by." 

"  I  wish  I  could  weep  such  tears  as  yours,  my  good 
woman  !     God  bless  you  !  ' ' 

The  beautiful  lesson  was  not  lost. 

The  good  woman's  joy  was  the  joy  ofEmmaTatham.  God 
led  her  into  a  retreat  which  her  genius,  her  taste,  and  her 
heart  might  enjoy  for  a  little  while,  "  as  a  sort  of  picture  "  of 
the  land  which  she  was  soon  to  enter  as  her  own.  She  began 
her  course  in  the  depth  of  city  life ;  she  was  led  out  to  regale 
her  spirit  by  the  sea,  and  to  dwell  a  little  with  her  "  beloved 
ocean,  and  cliffs,  and  clouds,  and  storms,  and  sunsets  ;  "  and 
now,  having  seen  her  last  sunset  by  the  sea,  she  was  guided 
to  one  of  the  most  tranquil  scenes  of  English  rural  life,  that 
she  might  sing  among  the  leafage,  and  be  hushed  into  quiet 
readiness  for  realising  the  immortal  visions  which  her  inspired 
soul  had  longed  for.  To  ride  from  London  to  St.  Albans, 
and  to  ramble  along  by  the  quiet  stream  which  gives  fresh- 
ness to  the  undulating  scenery  around  Redbourn,  to  rumi- 
nate under  majestic  elms  within  sight  of  the  old  storied 
abbey;  or  to  go  chanting  through  the  leafy  avenue  which 
adorns  the  finely  turfed  folkland  of  Redbourn,  and  to  look 
around  upon  the  simple  homes  of  the  enchanting  village 
which  nestles  in  sweet  companionship  with  its  neighbour 
hamlet,  amidst  gardens,  bright  meadows,  and  park-lands,  is 
to  think  of  Emma  Tatham  coming  there  as  to  the  land  of 
Beulah.  Here  our  young  pilgrim  came,  in  company  with  her 
mother,  and  was  ministered  to  by  those  who  loved  her  with 
much  affection.  Her  last  days  were  spent  in  doing  good  to 
the  young  and  to  the  poor.  Her  last  smiles  were  blessings. 
Her  kind  host  heard  her  voice  one  morning,  and,  entering 
her  room,  saw  her  face  bright  with  holy  joy.  "  Tell  my  dear 
father,"  she  said,  in  a  loud,  clear  voice,  "that  no  death-bed 
could  be  happier  than  mine  ;  and  tell  him  that  it  is  all  glory, 
glory,  glory  !     Jesus  has  been  with   me  in   the   night,  and 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  409 

smiled  on  me."  She  was  now  to  realise  her  own  conception 
in  that  exquisitely  tender,  yet  glowing  poem,  which  she  had 
entitled,  "  To  Die":— 

The  babe  dies  peacefully  in  the  warm  arms 

Of  its  sweet  mother,  while  the  glowing  life 

Of  the  fond  heart  whereto  she  presses  it 

Half  binds  the  fluttering  dove  to  its  white  cage, 

And  keeps  the  pulse  at  play.     Oh  !   she  would  pour 

Her  own  life  into  the  cold  babe  with  joy  ! 

Therefore  she  binds  him  so  about  her  heart 

To  make  him  still  live  on,  thinking  to  blend 

Her  being  with  the  babe ;  but,  lo !  the  bud 

Of  immortality,  nursed  in  her  breast, 

Hath  blossom'd  into  Heaven.     So  let  me  die 

Where  the  warm  life  of  Jesus  shall  inspire 

My  fainting  spirit,  and  His  heart  shall  beat 

New  pulses  into  mine. 

Now  she  felt  the  full  power  of  the  Redeemer's  claim  on 
all  the  gifts  with  which  He  had  endowed  her.  "  Tell  my 
dear  father  (for  he  will  not  deny  my  last  request)  if  he  loves 
me,  he  will  not  let  one  word  of  mine  be  printed  which  is  not 
as  pure,  and  holy,  and  true  as  human  frailty  could  write  with 
the  aid  of  the  Holy  Spirit.''  After  an  interval  of  suffering, 
she  again  greeted  the  return  of  her  loved  Sabbath,  and  called 
up  her  own  verses  u  To  Music  " : — 

Ah,  meet  me  at  the  portal  of  the  grave  1 
Come  with  the  echoes  of  my  sister's  lyre, 

And  teach  me,  as  I  pass  the  parted  wave, 
To  wake  with  Jesus'  name  my  harp  of  fire. 

Calmly  passing,  she  gave  out  "  faint  as  if  far-off  sounds  of 
triumph  " — "  Glory  !  "  The  last  tremulous  whisper  was  of 
"  Glory  !  " 

Her  mortal  remains  are  in  the  little  cemetery  attached  to 
the  Independent  Chapel  at  Redbourn — placed  there  at  her 
dying  request.  The  spot  is  marked  by  a  simple  memorial 
stone.  Behind  this  stone  there  is  a  white  rose  tree,  the 
branches  of  which  sometimes  bend  and  appear  to  embrace 
the  inscribed  name  of  the  one  who  once  sang  so  lovingly  "To 
the  White  Rose":— 


410  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Art  thou  created  for  a  sinner's  sight, 

Form'd  for  these  eyes  to  gaze  upon  ?     Oh  say, 

Could  purity  so  exquisitely  white, 

Fragrance  so  soft,  be  only  to  delight 

Ungrateful  man,  and  strew  a  rebel's  way  ? 

What  hand  hath  moulded  thy  ethereal  grace? 
Did'st  thou  from  this  dark  earth  indeed  arise  ? 

0  miracle  of  beauty  !  in  thy  face 

Pale  holiness  and  glowing  love  embrace, 
And  in  thy  hidden  heart  perfection  dies. 

The  softest,  richest  blush  thy  bosom  hides, 

The  very  breath  of  love  thy  sighs  distil, 
God's  finger-mark  on  every  leaf  abides, 
His  tender  touch  in  thee,  how  mildly  !  chides 
Our  harsh  distrust  and  waywardness  of  will. 

1  should  have  deem'd  thee  form'd  for  angels'  eyes, 

For  angels'  foreheads  only — Eden's  bowers — 
How  can'st  thou  live  beneath  these  changing  skies, 
And  breathe  this  atmosphere  of  sins  and  sighs, 

O  perfect  loveliness  ?  O  flower  of  flowers  ! 

But  I  have  learn'd  from  thy  mute  eloquence 

That  God  hath  love  to  man  beyond  our  thought ; 
For  what  but  love,  unspeakable,  intense, 
Breathes  from  thy  bosom  on  the  ravish'd  sense  ? 
Oh,  with  what  love  to  sinners  thou  art  fraught ! 

It  is  as  if  Heaven  did  our  path  beset, 

Besieging  us  with  omnipresent  prayers; 
To  melt  these  icy  hearts  so  frozen  yet, 
Ears,  eyes,  assails,  yea,  stoops  to  kiss  our  feet, 
Lays  for  our  happiness  ten  thousand  snares ; 

Thinks  nought  too  beautiful,  too  soft,  too  fine 
To  shower  on  man,  the  rebel,  the  unclean  ! 

O  lavished  goodness  !  generousness  divine  ! 

Written  on  every  flower,  in  every  line, 

And  on  each  glorious  bird  of  beauty  seen. 

All  springing  like  a  million  gushing  streams, 
From  Calvary's  dear  hill — thither  we  trace 
The  tireless  love,  whose  many-colour'd  beams 
Pursue  our  steps,  and  hover  o'er  our  dreams, 

And  hold  our  struggling  hearts  in  strong  embrace. 

O  flower  !  beloved  flower !  the  Hand  which  bled, 

Transfix'd  in  anguish  to  the  Cross,  for  me — 
That  Hand  so  delicately  shaped,  thy  head, 
The  ointment  of  His  sweetness  on  it  shed, 
And  taught  the  language  of  His  love  to  thee. 


AN    INSPIRED    YOUNG    MAIDEN.  41  1 

Now  I  will  tell  thee,  O  thou  perfect  flower, 

What  thou  art  like.     There  was  a  fair,  pale  child, 

Came,  as  thou  comest,  in  our  lowly  bower, 

To  be  my  mother's  joy  for  one  brief  hour, 

And  then  she  died,  but  on  death's  bosom  smil'd. 

Thou  art  like  her — that  fading  glow  of  thine 

Resembles  the  last  colour  on  her  cheek  ; 
She  was  like  thee;  a  heart  and  hand  divine 
Made  holy  beauty  o'er  her  spirit  shine, 

And  perfected  the  praise  she  could  not  speak. 

Yes,  sister,  gather'd  young,  a  white  moss-rose 

Born  but  to  open  on  thy  Saviour's  breast, 
Purer  and  fairer  than  the  whitest  snows, 
While  in  thy  heart  love's  living  colour  glows, 

And  joy's  rich  fragrance  on  thy  head  doth  rest. 

Emma  Tatham  had  a  deep,  mysterious  affection  for  that 
glorified  young  sister,  though  she  had  never  seen  her.  They 
are  in  companionship  now  for  ever. 


412  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE. 

No  race  is  more  erratic  than  the  bards  ; 

This  moment  low,  then  towering  o'er  the  hills ; 

Sighing  in  shadow,  smiling  in  the  sun, 

And  visited  with  visions  pearl-beset. 

Theirs  is  a  wondrous  mission,  and  the  world 

Grows  brighter  for  their  beauty  ;  deserts  bloom, 

And  crime  is  chased  where  wildernesses  moan. 

Jj)  EHOLD,  this  dreamer  cometh  !  "  said  a  lady, 
playfully,  as  she  was  nearing  a  somewhat 
remarkable  figure  which  was  coming  towards 
her  on  the  road. 

"  What    do     you    mean  ?  "      inquired     the 
dreamer. 

"Mean?  Why,  I  mean  that  whenever  I  meet  you  out  of 
doors,  you  appear  to  be  in  a  dreamy  state,  as  if  you  saw 
nobody,  or  nothing ;  and  you  look  as  if  you  were  gazing  into 
a  world  which  other  people  do  not  see." 

"Well,  perhaps  there  may  be  some  truth  in  what  you  say. 
I  may  appear  absent,  as  I  really  am  sometimes." 

The  absent-looking  man  might  have  quoted  his  own  lines, 
and  said  to  the  lady  :  "  You  know  that 

I'm  fond  of  travelling  old  deserted  paths, 
Searched  by  the  winds,  and  soft  with  solitude ; 


Of  musing  lonely  by  old  Ocean's  shore, 

And  roaming  widely  through  the  fields  of  thought.  " 

The  poet,  for  such  he  was,   might  well  be  suspected  of 
dreaming  as  he  walked.     The  slight,  forward  bend  of  the 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  413 

head,  the  quiet  step,  the  features  of  .harmonious  thoughtful- 
ness,  the  eyes  half  veiled  by  their  lids,  as  if  they  wished  to 
enjoy  their  own  visions  without  interruption  from  outside  j 
and  the  line  bald  forehead,  revealed  by  the  lifting  of  his  hat, 
all  told  the  passing  observer  that  the  man  was  in  spirit  akin  to 
him  who,  from  taste  and  habit,  "  went  out  to  meditate  in  the 
field  at  eventide."  But  join  him  as  a  friend,  and  talk  with 
him  freely  about  nature  and  grace,  the  beautiful  and  the 
true,  home  life  and  immortal  peace,  and  at  once  every 
feature  would  have  its  charm  of  utterance,  and  the  veiling 
eyelids  would  be  lifted  so  as  to  reveal  the  soft,  blue,  loving, 
poetic  eyes,  mildly  radiant,  and  gently  reminding  you  that 
you  were  in  communion  with  a  sweetly  toned  soul. 

He  had  been  for  some  years  pacing  to  and  fro,  at  times,  on 
that  road  where  the  lady  met  him  as  the  "  dreamer."  And  no 
wonder  that  he  seemed  to  be  looking  at  what  other  people 
did  not  see ;  for  his  walks  were  often  beguiled  by  the 
inwardly  rising  music  of  some  new  sonnet,  sometimes, 
perhaps,  "To  the  Passing  Month,"  or,  "  To  the  Hawthorn," 
or,  "  To  the  Thrush,"  or,  "  To  the  Skylark  5"  thus — 

Hail,  sweet  musician  !     At  the  earliest  dawn 

Shaking  the  dew-drops  from  thy  fluttering  wing ; 

And,  oh  !  how  sweet  it  is  to  hear  thee  sing, 

And  drink  thy  music,  floating  o'er  the  lawn  ! 

Hail,  harper  of  the  cloud  !     I  bend  me  low 

In  humble  adoration  at  thy  shrine, 

Rapt  with  those  spirit-notes  that  round  me  flow, 

Gushing  upon  my  soul  in  airs  divine  ! 

Hail,  harper  of  the  cloud  !     When  new-born  day 

Peers  o'er  the  mountain-tops  I'll  haste  away 

To  drink  thy  mellow  music.     Power  is  thine, 

Beloved  minstrel,  with  thy  melting  hymn, 

Stole  from  the  chimings  of  the  cherubim, 

To  raise  my  thoughts  above  earth's  dusty  line  ! 

The  poet  was  John  Harris ;  for  twenty  years  of  his  life  a 
working  Cornish  miner.  He  solaced  himself,  during  that 
time,  and  charmed  his  neighbours  by  the  issue  of  "  Lays 
from  the  Mine,  the  Moor,  and  the  Mountain,"  "nearly  all 
written  under  very  unkindly  outward  circumstances,  at  times 


4^4  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

when  he  has  been  oppressed  by  domestic  cares,  and  when 
his  health  and  spirits  have  been  crushed  by  the  drudgery  of 
toiling  in  one  of  the  oldest  and  deepest  mines  in  Cornwall." 
He  himself  in  later  life  gives,  in  a  letter  to  a  literary  friend, 
an  interesting  and    instructive  sketch    of   his   early  course. 
"The  muses  found  me,"  he  says,  "  at  a  very  early  age,  even 
when  I  plodded,  satchel  in  hand,  to  the  thatched  school-house 
on  the  edge  of  the  common,  to  get  my  daily  lessons  from  a 
one-legged  country  schoolmaster.      This,  and  the  Sabbath- 
school  in  the  neighbourhood,  were  the  only  sources  I  had  for 
an  early  education.      But  I  was  fond  of  books  from  a  child, 
and  often  stole  away  from  my  play-fellows  into  some  solitary 
place  to  read  and  meditate.     The  tales  of  my  mother,  as  we 
sat   around    the  evening   tire,    sometimes   rilled    my   young 
imagination  with  wondrous  dreams.      Born  on  the  crest  of 
the  hill,  amid  the  crags  and  storms,  I  grew  up  in  love  with 
Nature,  and  she  became  my  chief  teacher.      When  I  was  a 
boy,  I  used  to  write  rhymes  for  my  play-fellows  on  the  clean 
side  of  cast-off  labelled  tea-papers  which  my  mother  had 
brought  from  the   shop ;  then  listen   while   they   read  them 
with  rapt  delight.     At  the  age  of  nine  I  was  taken  off  from 
school  and  put  to  work  in  the  helds.     At  the  age  of  twelve  I 
was  put  in  the  mine  to  work  on  the  surface  ;  and,  one  year 
later,  I  descended  into  its  dark  depths  to  labour  hard  for  my 
bread  ;  and  in  the  same  mine  I  have  been  digging  day  and 
night  to  this  day.     Many  of  the  pieces  published  in  my  first 
volume  were  originally  written  on  the  crown  of  my  hat,  as  I 
sat  in  the  twilight  amid  the  heath-brakes  of  our  Cornish  hills. 
I  always  feel  a  pure  inspiration  in  the  open-air,  and  generally 
compose  out  of  doors." 

The  poet  claims  for  his  verses  merely  "  the  humble  merit 
of  originality  and  simplicity."  They  are  remarkable  for 
original  power  and  simple  beauty.  But  they  have  what 
some  would  deem  higher  characteristics  of  true  poetry.  His 
imagination  is  fruitful  in  happy  combinations  and  rare 
similes.  His  epithets,  here  and  there,  are  richly  suggestive, 
transparent   treasuries  of  distinctive    beauty,  poetic   micro- 


A    BARD    FROM    THE     MINE.  ^l  $ 

cosms.  The  poems  show  considerable  native  wealth  of 
diction,  and  refined  taste  is  not  un frequently  manifest  in  the 
choice  of  words.  When  his  descriptive  powers  venture  on 
foreign  ground,  he  may,  at  times,  fall  into  inconsistency. 
Defective  knowledge  betrays  him  into  descriptions  not  quite 
true  to  nature.  In  this,  however,  his  genius  may  not  be 
more  at  fault  than  that  of  the  great  master  painters,  who 
give  us  Scripture  scenes  so  unlike  the  reality  that  a  Biblical 
critic  once  spoke  the  truth  severely  when  he  said,  "such 
painters  are  liars."  Poets  as  well  as  painters  should  know 
those  features  of  nature  which  they  undertake  to  pourtray .  But 
Harris  on  his  native  soil  is  true  to  life.  His  pictures  of  nature 
have  a  freshness  about  them  almost  as  inspiring  as  that  of  the 
scenes  themselves  which  first  courted  and  called  forth  his 
native  genius.  "  I  am  not  a  native  of  Cornwall,"  said  a 
gentleman  of  taste  to  the  poet,  "  but  you  have  given  the  dis- 
tinctive scenery  of  the  county  such  a  charm  for  me  that  I 
could  wish  myself  a  Cornishman."  The  poet  always  has  a 
holy  purpose.  His  lessons  are  often  touching,  and  always 
pure.  His  home  sympathies  are  very  tender.  The  joys  and 
sorrows  of  human  life  are  sacred  things  to  him  j  and  he 
touches  them  with  a  feeling  that  gently  draws  responses  from 
every  heart  which  comes  within  the  range  of  his  influence. 
How  charmingly  his  descriptive  powers  and  the  warm  affec- 
tions of  his  soul  intermingle  and  brighten  each  other's  beauty 
in  the  opening  of  his  poem  on  "  The  Love  of  Home  "  : — 

The  earth  is  fair  with  fields  of  happiness, 

With  bowers  that  blossom  everlastingly, 

With  gems  that  sparkle  on  and  never  fade, 

With  streams  that  murmur  sweeter  and  more  sweet, 

With  flowers  that  wither  not  from  moon  to  moon, 

With  gardens  where  the  roses  fill  the  year, 

Affections  cling  around  them  ivy-like, 

Entwining  them  for  ever,  till  the  hills 
And  silent  valleys  dimly  fade  in  death. 

Such  is  our  birth-place  garlanded  with  green, 

Fragrant  with  love-shoots  of  our  early  time, 

Gemmed  with  pure  thoughts  that  glow  through  after-life, 

Songful  amid  the  sunshine  of  the  past 

And  clinging  to  the  memory  evermore. 


4l6  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Sec  yonder  pilgrim  with  his  hoary  locks, 

Sitting  beside  the  streamlet  in  the  vale, 

Which  glides  from  rock  to  rock  exultingly. 

Before  him,  in  that  altered  arbour's  shade, 

Lie  the  rough  ruins  of  his  father's  cot, 

Prostrate  among  the  climbing  ivy  leaves, 

And  the  rank  grass  which  withers  where  it  grows. 

Oh  !  how  those  granite  blocks,  untouched  by  art, 

Are  murmuring  to  him  on  this  April  morn; 

There's  not  a  scattered  fragment  in  that  pile 

But  has  a  tongue,  a  most  enchanting  tongue, 

Which  captivates  him  with  its  eloquence, 

And  binds  him  to  the  mossy  primrose  bank. 

They  tell  him  of  his  mother  and  his  sire, 

His  sunny  sisters,  lovely  as  the  light, 

The  dear  companions  of  his  childhood  hours, 

And  all  the  painted  landscapes  of  his  life. 

Why  does  the  tear-drop,  gushing  from  his  eye, 
Steal  over  his  sad  face  so  silently, 
Until  it  drops  into  the  silver  brook, 
Startling  the  timid  trout  that  watches  there  ? 
Why  does  he  ever  and  anon  start  up, 
Snatching  his  staff,  then  sits  him  down  again, 
And  gazing  still  is  still  unsatisfied  ? 
Why  does  he  come  among  the  early  flowers, 
.     As  now  he  comes  and  lingers  here  alone 
Among  the  ruins  of  that  rended  nest, 
As  if  he  saw  a  white  robed  angel  there  ? 
This  was  that  old  man's  birth-place.  Four-score  years 
Have  swiftly  hurried  o'er  the  pilgrim's  head, 
Leaving  sad  traces  of  decay  behind. 
But  that  pure  principle  which  Nature  gives, 
And  fosters  in  the  breast  of  every  one, 
Burns  on  and  on  from  youth  to  manhood's  prime, 
And  smoulders  not  amid  the  snows  of  age. 

His  lyric  vein,  too,   is  sometimes,   for   beauty,    like   the 

serpentine  adornments  of  his  own  "  Kynance  Cove,"  whose 

hollow  caves 

Are  dashed  with  images  of  flowery  hues  ; 

And  on  the  rocks,  like  beautiful  psalm-leaves, 

Are  odes  of  music  lovely  as  the  light 

Trilled  by  the  sea-nymphs  in  their  watery  robes. 

This  might   have   been    anticipated   from  his    early    ex- 
pression of  love  for  his  lyre  : — 

Little  music-breathing  lyre ! 
Once  again  I  touch  thy  wire; 
Once  again  a  song  I  raise, 
Pensive  warbler,  in  thy  praise. 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  41 7 

On  my  father's  broomy  height, 
In  life's  morning  clear  and  bright, 
'Neath  the  craggy  rocks,  which  lie 
"With  white  faces  to  the  sky, 
Lichened  o'er  with  many  a  lay 
Of  the  old  times  passed  away, 
Stony  chroniclers  outspread 
On  my  mountain's  heathy  head, — 
In  their  mystic  shadows  lone, 
First  I  heard  thy  plaintive  tone ; 
First  my  hands  essayed  to  bring 
Music  from  thy  trembling  string, 
And  my  soul's  mysterious  fire 
Warmed  to  hear  thee,  little  lyre  ! 

One  of  his  first  lyrics  was  "To  the  First  Violet/'  and 
it  is  one  of  his  best.  When  presenting  it  to  his  friend  the 
late  Dr.  George  Smith,  of  Camborne,  the  doctor,  who  was 
more  of  an  antiquary  than  a  poet,  said,  "  Try  something 
else,  John ;  everybody  writes  about  violets."  "  That  may 
be  true,"  was  the  reply,  "but  everybody  who  has  any 
power  of  his  own  will  have  his  own  violet,  and  his  own 
way  of  making  love  to  it."  John  took  the  doctor's  advice, 
however,  and  tried  something  else,  and  never  succeeded 
with  more  sweet  effect  than  when  he  gives  his  lyrical 
recollections  of  home  in  "  The  Mother's  Teaching  " : — 

Without,  the  angry  elements 

Were  raging  in  their  ire ; 
Within,  the  mother  spoke  of  Christ, 

Beside  the  cheerful  fire. 
Her  little  ones  were  sitting  round, 

To  whom  the  world  was  new, 
Drawing  the  honey  from  her  lips, 

Like  flow' rets  drinking  dew. 

She  told  how  Christ  a  baby  was 

In  Bethlehem  of  old  ; 
He  came  from  heaven  in  human  form ; 

So  holy  men  have  told. 
He  came  from  heaven  in  human  form, 

His  frame  a  human  clod, 
He  suffered,  wept,  and  died  below, 

And  then  went  back  a  God. 

The  seed  thus  sown  in  early  life 

Was  like  the  precious  grain, 
When  warmed  by  vernal  suns,  and  cheered 

By  spring's  refreshing  rain. 

E  E 


418  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Dark  days  of  weariness  and  cloud 

May  often  intervene ; 
But  then  the  little  blade  smiles  forth, 

And  then  the  ear  is  seen. 

The  parting  blast  of  years  hath  blown 

Upon  this  little  band, 
And  scattered  them,  like  forest  leaves, 

Around  their  fatherland. 
And  that  loved  mother  sleeps  below, 

Beside  the  village  fane  ; 
But,  written  on  the  earth  and  sky, 

Her  loving  words  remain. 

Those  lessons  by  the  holy  hearth 

Are  travelling  on  and  on, 
Although  the  voice  which  uttered  them — 

That  mother's  voice — is  gone. 
From  age  to  age  their  course  will  be 

For  evermore  the  same, 
Till  children's  children  joy  to  bless 

That  mother's  sainted  name. 

"  How  solemn  was  the  grandeur  of  old  Carnbrae  the  last 
time  I  stood  on  her  brow  !  It  can  never  be  forgotten," 
says  a  mountain  rambler ;  "  that  wild,  romantic  scramble 
up  among  the  scattered  masses  of  granite  which  lay  in  heaps 
among  the  furze  and  heath ;  the  venerable  old  fragment  of  a 
castle  on  the  top ;  the  curious  piles  of  weather-beaten  rocks, 
looking  as  if  they  had  been  familiar  with  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  world's  childhood ;  and  the  glorious  prospect 
of  hills,  and  plain,  and  sea  which  opened  around  one ; — all 
contributed  to  give  me  a  sense  of  enlargement  and  exhilara- 
tion, strangely  associated  with  feelings  of  awe,  which,  I 
believe,  I  shall  never  entirely  lose.  I  had  a  volume  of 
Harris's  poems  with  me,  and,  while  sitting  in  one  of  the 
rock-basins  on  the  summit  of  what  has  been  called  the 
Druid  altar-stone,  I  enjoyed  a  most  pleasant  kind  of  in- 
spiration under  the  charm  of  the  poet's  voice.  I  heard  a 
step  on  the  green  turf,  and,  looking  up  from  my  book,  there 
was  an  unmistakable  type  of  the  Keltish  family,  evidently 
a  miner,  with  an  intelligence  and  a  shrewdness  in  his 
sallow  face  which  quite  disposed  me  to  court  his  company 
a  little.     This  was  soon  secured,  for,  with  the  natural  in- 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  419 

quisitiveness  of  the  race  in  that  province,  there  was  a  native 
polite  readiness  to  communicate  information  to  one  who 
proved  willing  to  receive  it.  He  might  be  called  a  cultured 
man — in  his  own  line  of  pursuit  at  least.  As  a  matter  of 
course  I  spoke  about  that  which,  at  the  first  glance,  seemed 
to  be  the  most  ancient  thing  about  the  hill,  the  old  fragment 
of  a  castle  perched  on  its  eastern  brow,  looking  down  upon 
the  parish  church  of  Redruth  in  the  deep  valley. 

"That  castle  is  old  enough,"  said  I,  "  some  parts  of  it,  at 
all  events,  to  defy  the  most  deep-sighted  inquirer  into  its 
origin.  An  old  writer  in  King  Edward  the  Fourth's  time 
saw  it,  they  tell  me,  and  jotted  in  his  note-book  '  Turris 
Castelli  Karnbree?  But  coins  have  been  found  to  witness 
that  Roman  soldiers  have  entered  it ;  and  that  long  before 
Caesar  formed  his  plan  for  a  visit  to  Britain,  Keltish  chieftains 
had  commanded  within  the  walls  which  their  ancestors' 
workmen  had  reared.  The  foundations  are  primitive,  beyond 
the  earliest  records  of  British  art.  And  yet  that  castle  is  a 
thing  of  the  present  compared  with  the  mysterious  piles  of 
rock  that  were  venerable  long  ere  the  first  British  Islander 
made  a  foot-print  on  the  hill.  Perhaps  no  human  eye  ever 
saw  any  other  prospect  from  Carnbrae  than  the  miles  of  un- 
dulating landscape  which  we  now  see,  stretching  towards 
the  sea.  I  have  a  notion,  however,  that  at  some  period  in 
the  past  this  hill,  and  the  others  in  a  line  with  it,  must  have 
been  granite  island-peaks  or  headlands  of  the  coast  line." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  my  companion, 
H  but  I  know  something  about  the  antiquity  of  the  hill. 
You  must  look  into  its  foundations  to  judge  of  its  age.  You 
see  it  is  one  of  a  line  of  granite  hills  running  towards  Cam- 
borne in  a  south-westerly  direction.  At  the  base  of  the  line 
there  are  mines  of  sufficient  depth  and  range  to  afford  curious 
and  interesting  means  of  knowing  something  about  the 
under-ground  relations  of  the  uplifted  hills  of  granite  to  the 
more  level  deposits  of  "  Killas"  as  we  call  it,  or  clay-slate, 
which  lie  northward  between  Carnbrae  and  the  sea.  If  we  may 
take  the  state  of  things  beneath  the  more  western  valley,  as 


420  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

indicating  the  relative  position  of  the  granite  and  the  slate 
along  the  whole  line  of  primitive  hills,  then  it  is  found  that 
the  granite  continues  to  dip  below  the  surface  at  the  same 
angle  as  the  hill ;  that  at  the  depth  of  several  hundred 
fathoms  it  rises  again  so  as  to  form  smaller  hills ;  and  that 
then,  from  the  summits  of  this  lower  range  it  sweeps  down 
a  second  time  into  a  much  deeper  valley ;  the  clay-slate  over- 
lying all  these  undulations.  The  stratification  of  the  slate  as 
it  appears  upon  the  granite  is  horizontal,  or  nearly  so.  At  the 
junction  of  the  granite  and  the  slate,  the  granite  is  sometimes 
jaggy,  with  the  slate  curiously  fitting  into  it,  and  at  other 
points  the  union  is  that  of  two  hard  and  smooth  surfaces 
pressed  tightly  together.  Here  and  there  the  slate  is  some- 
what softer  at  and  near  the  line  of  contact ;  but  in  no  case 
showing  any  indications  of  igneous  action,  either  by  the  dis- 
turbance of  the  strata,  or  by  difference  of  composition  or 
colour.  There  is  an  apparent  variation  in  the  character  of  the 
granite  as  it  is  near  or  more  distant  from  the  point  of  junc- 
tion. The  nearer  kind,  which  has  been  called  transition 
granite,  is  comparatively  loose,  fragmentary,  and  affording  no 
solid  masses  of  any  useful  magnitude  ;  the  deeper  rock  upon 
which  this  is  superimposed  is  compact,  and  capable  of  being 
worked  for  purposes  of  art.  The  metals  are  found  either 
in  the  slate,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  its  junction  with  the 
granite,  or  in  the  transition  granite ;  never,  it  would  appear, 
in  the  lower  and  more  compact  beds  of  the  primitive  rock. 
Large,  separate  portions  of  granite  are  sometimes  found  in  the 
midst  of  the  clay-slate,  without  any  dike  connecting  them 
with  their  kindred  mass  below  j  or  any  kind  of  fault  which 
might  account  for  their  position.  Appearances  might  dispose 
one  to  think  that  by  some  means  they  had  been  tumbled  or 
rolled  into  the  deposit  of  clay  while  it  was  submarine,  and 
before  it  had  taken  its  present  indurated  character  and  form. 
But  who  can  tell  ?  Perhaps,  as  you  say,  sir,  Carnbrae  and  its 
neighbour  hills  might  have  been  headlands  once  looking  out 
upon  the  waters  beneath  which  the  strata  of  clay-slate  were 
quietly  settling  into  position.     There  may  have  been  ages  of 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  421 

deposition,  and  ages  of  settlement  and  induration  j  ages  for 
the  accumulation  of  metallic  treasures,  and  periods  of  great 
upheaving ;  times  of  drainage,  and  seasons  of  vegetable 
spring  and  growth  ;  until,  where  the  waters  had  been,  there 
was  grass,  wood,  open  held,  copse,  and  slopes  of  heath  and 
furze,  covering  a  hidden  world  of  mineral  wealth.  I  wonder 
how  long  that  wilderness  rejoiced  before  a  mortal  foot  in- 
vaded it !  and  how  long  had  the  old  upraised  ocean-bed 
covered  its  glittering  stores  before  any  primitive  '  tinner'  found 
a  clue  to  its  veins  ?  You  talk  of  antiquity,  sir  •  here  it  is  in- 
deed ?  If  you  want  real  ancient  grandeur,  you  must  wander 
down  about  the  foundations  of  Carnbrae.  Those  who  talk 
about  the  antiquities  up  here  on  the  hill  may  be  silent  before 
the  man  who  can  say,  '  I  went  down  to  the  bottoms  of  the 
mountains :  the   earth   with   her  bars  was  about   me    for 


ever 


"  Thank  you,  very  much,"  said  I  to  my  intelligent  miner, 
"  but  you  remind  me  of  what  I  was  just  now  reading.  Here 
are  lines  written  by  one  who  has  gone  down  into  the  old 
depths  you  speak  of.     Let  me  read  them  to  you: — 

"  Hast  ever  seen  a  mine  ?     Hast  ever  been 
Down  in  its  fabled  grottoes,  wall'd  with  gems, 
And  canopied  with  torrid  mineral-belts, 
That  blaze  within  the  fiery  orifice  ? 
Hast  ever,  by  the  glimmer  of  the  lamp, 
Or  the  fast-waning  taper,  gone  down,  down, 
Towards  the  earth's  dread  centre,  where  wise  men 
Have  told  us  that  the  earthquake  is  conceived,  . 

And  great  Vesuvius  hath  his  lava-house, 
Which  burns  and  burns  for  ever,  shooting  forth 
As  from  a  fountain  of  eternal  fire  ? 
Hast  ever  heard  within  this  prison-house 
The  startling  hoof  of  fear  ?  the  eternal  flow 
Of  some  dread  meaning  whispering  to  thy  soul  ? 
■   Hast  ever  seen  the  miner  at  his  toil, 
Following  his  obscure  work  below,  below, 
Where  not  a  single  sun-ray  visits  him, 
But  all  is  darkness  and  perpetual  night  ? 
Here  the  dull  god  of  gloom,  unrivall'd,  reigns, 
And  wraps  himself  in  palls  of  pitchy  dark  ! 

'  Hast  ever  breathed  its  sickening  atmosphere  ? 
Heard  its  dread  throbbings,  when  the  rock  has  burst  ? 
Leaped  at  its  heavings   in  the  powder  blast  ? 


422  THE    TOETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  trembled  when  the  groaning,  splitting  earth, 
Mass  after  mass,  fell  down  with  deadliest  crash  ? 
What  sayest  thou  ? — thou  hast  not? — come  with  me ; 
Or  if  thou  hast,  no  matter,  come  again. 
Don't  fear  to  trust  me ;  for  I  have  been  there 
From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  dewy  morn, 
Gasping  within  its  burning  sulphur-cloud, 
Straining  mine  eyes  along  its  ragged  walls, 
And  wondering  at  the  uncouth  passages 
Dash'd  in  the  sparry  cells  by  Fancy's  wand  ; 
And  oft  have  paused,  and  paused  again,  to  hear 
Th'  eternal  echo  of  its  emptiness." 

"I  remember  the  lines,"  said  the  stranger,  "they  are 
from  John  Harris's  poem  on  '  Christian  Heroism.' " 

"  Do  you  know  Harris  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  was  in  the  same  mine  with  him — Dolcoath  ; 
it  is  one  of  that  cluster  that  you  see  yonder  towards  Camborne. 
John  worked  in  that  mine  for  twenty  years ;  making  poetry 
all  the  while.  Times  were  bad  with  him  now  and  then ; 
but  I  suppose,  like  some  others,  even  when  things  were  at 
the  worst,  he  could  thank  God,  as  he  says,  for 

"  The  springs  of  hope 
Which  bubble  up  among  the  mounds  of  care 

"  I  was  glad,  and  I  believe  '  one  and  all '  were,  when  we 
heard  that  our  old  comrade,  a  brave  '  Cornish  boy/  had  car- 
ried off  the  prize  for  his  poem  on  the  Anniversary  of  Shake- 
speare's Birthday  j  though  there  were  so  many  competitors 
from  England  and  America.  I  sent  up  a  hurrah  for  our 
Cornish  poet,  who  once  sang — 

"  Bathed  in  the  ruddy  light, 

Flooding  his  native  height, 
A  youthful  bard  is  stretched  upon  the  moss ; 

He  heedeth  not  the  eve, 

Whose  locks  the  elfins  weave, 
Entranced  with  Shakespeare  near  a  Cornish  cross." 

u  I  left  the  stranger  on  the  top  of  Carnbrae  ;  but  have  not 
lost  the  tones  of  his  voice,  nor  the  charm  of  the  lessons 
which  he  impressed  upon  my  mind  and  heart." 

In  a  sequestered  valley  among  our  poet's  native  hills, 
shadowed  by  the  leafage  of  a  romantic  churchyard  at  the 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  423 

base  of  a  rugged  earn,  there  is  an  old  thatched  cottage  with 
its  thick  mud  walls  carefully  whitened  on  the  outside,  and 
kept  beautifully  fresh  within.  It  is  a  miner's  home.  There 
husband,  wife,  and  nine  children,  healthy,  cheerful,  and 
devout,  have  spent  days  of  labour  and  enjoyed  their  evening 
repose.  The  good  man  came  down  the  valley  towards  his 
home  with  a  friend  one  winter's  night.  They  had  been 
joining  their  valley  and  hill-side  neighbours  at  evening  ser- 
vice in  the  little  sanctuary  at  the  vale-head.  And  as  they 
walked,  they  talked  about  Providence,  how  finely  it  keeps  in 
tune  with  saving  grace. 

"What  are  the  average  gettings  at  the  mine  now  ?  "  it  was 
inquired. 

"  Well,  on  an  average  about  three  pound,  or  three  pound 
ten,  a  month." 

"  That  is  small,  compared  with  the  wages  of  coal-miners, 
and  spinners,  and  weavers,  in  the  North.  Some  of  them  get 
as  much  in  a  week  as  you  do  in  a  month,  yet  they  and  their 
families  are,  many  of  them,  scarcely  fit  to  be  seen,  Sundays  or 
Mondays,  indoors  or  out,  and  are  never  contented  ;  while 
you  appear  to  be  happy,  to  live  decently  at  home,  and  to  dress 
well — on  Sundays,  at  least.     How  is  it  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  because  we  are  thrifty,  content  with  whole- 
some food,  and  decent  clothes.  But  I  believe  the  great  secret 
is  that  we  have  learnt  to  love  God,  and  to  let  Him  manage 
for  us,  while  we  try  to  serve  Him.  A  few  years  ago,  some  of 
our  men  were  tempted  to  go  to  South  America,  for  the  sake 
of  getting  a  little  fortune,  as  they  said.  They  wanted  me  to 
go  with  them  j  but  I  began  to  think  whether  it  was  right  to 
risk  my  life,  to  leave  my  wife,  and,  above  all,  to  risk  my  soul, 
by  leaving  my  native  land,  with  all  its  religious  advantages,  to 
go  to  a  country  full  of  temptations,  and  with  no  helps  to  piety, 
all  for  gold.  I  prayed  often  about  it,  and  reasoned  the 
matter  before  God.  And  I  believe  I  was  helped  to  make  up 
my  mind  by  a  blessed  little  hymn  that  was  made  by  John 
Harris,  who  used  to  work  at  Dolcoath,  a  miner  like  myself, 
and  knowing  by  experience  the  trials  of  a  miner. 


424  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  Do  you  know  the  hymn  ? " 

"I  think  I  can  recollect  some  of  it,  if  not  all,  now": — 

11 1  ask  Thy  heavenly  guidance 
In  all  things  here  below ; 
Do  Thou  direct  my  footsteps 
The  way  that  I  should  go. 
Oh,  teach  my  heart  submission, 
Whate'er  my  lot  may  be, 
Contented  that  my  Father 
Should  ever  choose  for  me  ! 

"With  Thee  I  do  not  falter, 
To  walk  the  dim  unknown  : 
The  yet  untrodden  future 
Is  in  Thy  hands  alone  ; 
And  be  it  sun  or  shadow, 
Rough  waves  or  smiling  sea, 
A  garden  or  a  desert, 
The  Lord  shall  choose  for  me. 

If  up  the  stony  mountain 

My  painful  pathway  lie, 

Or  through  the  darksome  valley, 

I  dare  not  question  why. 

The  fields  may  lose  their  verdure, 

And  leafless  rise  the  tree  ; 

All  things  are  ordered  wisely — 

The  Lord  shall  choose  for  me. 

If  in  deep  shades  I  wander, 
Where  clouds  obscure  the  sun, 
And  flow  no  streams  of  comfort, 
Thy  perfect  will  be  done. 
What  now  appeareth  dimly, 
I  soon  shall  fully  see, 
When  God's  own  glory  shineth — 
The  Lord  shall  choose  for  me. 

And  when  the  cord  of  silver 

At  last  shall  loose  its  hold, 

And  in  the  strife  is  broken 

The  mystic  bowl  of  gold  ; 

When  loving  friends  are  watching, 

And  earthly  shadows  flee, 

As  heaven's  first  beams  are  breaking, 

The  Lord  shall  choose  for  me. 

"I  used  to  go  about  humming  to  myself,  now  one  verse 
and  then  another,  till  at  last  I  made  up  my  mind  to  abide  in 
the  house  of  the   Lord  at  home,  and  trust  Him  who  had 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  425 

always  so  far  provided  for  me  and  mine.  My  comrades 
went ;  and  it  happened  to  them  as  I  feared  it  might  to  me,  if  I 
had  gone.  They  made  their  fortunes,  as  people  say,  but  they 
lost  their  souls.  I  went  on  very  well  for  a  time,  till  things 
seemed  to  take  a  bad  turn  with  me.  I  was  on  '  tribute  ' — 
you  know  what  that  is — it  is  taking  certain  ground  to  break, 
on  speculation.  If  ore  is  found,  our  percentage  may  be  a 
little  fortune  5  but  if  no  ore,  no  pay.  As  I  say,  everything 
failed  with  me ;  and  then  I  was  tempted  to  reflect  upon  my- 
self for  stopping  home.  But  the  Lord  knew  my  motive, 
and  I  cried  to  Him  in  my  distress.  I  had  a  rising  family,  and 
nothing  for  them.  I  cried  for  help  j  and  one  day,  it  seemed 
as  if  a  voice  said,  ' you  know  such  and  such  a  ground  at  the 
mine,  go  and  offer  to  take  it.'  Well,  I  went,  and  took  it  j  and 
soon  cut  into  a  rich  bit,  and  got  enough  in  a  month  to  put 
me  into  comfortable  circumstances.  Not  that  I  was  rich, 
except  in  Christ ;  but  I  have  brought  up  my  nine  children, 
gave  them  decent  schooling,  and  taught  them  to  get  an 
honest  living.  To  this  day,  I  have  never  wanted  bread  on 
my  table,  a  tire  on  my  hearth,  or  the  blessing  of  a  happy, 
contented  home.     Thank  God  !" 

" Thank  God!"  responded  the  miner's  companion,  who 
also  remembered  some  of  John  Harris's  lines,  and  repeated 
them,  to  illustrate  his  happy  friend's  condition  and  experi- 
ence : — 

"  Who  hastes  to  heap  up  gold  shall  find 
A  heavier  burden  on  his  mind ; 
But  happy  he  who  is  content 
With  what  the  hand  of  Heaven  has  sent. 

Contentment  is  the  loveliest  lot ; 
She  dwelleth  oft  in  lowly  cot 
With  him  who  is  of  humble  mind, 
And  leaves  the  palace  far  behind. 

Of  all  the  nymphs  in  virtue's  train 
That  haunt  the  wood,  or  hill,  or  plain, 
However  low  my  lot  may  be, 
Oh,  may  contentment  dwell  with  me  I 

"  I  should  like  to  see  thy  birth-place,  John  Harris,"  said 
a  lady  to  the  poet;  "  wilt  thou  be  my  guide  to  it  ?  " 


42(5  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  lady,  as  her  mode  of  address  tells,  belonged  to  the 
"  Society  of  Friends."  And  there  was  a  cheerful,  comfortable 
something  about  her  face,  form,  and  manner,  which  served 
much  to  adorn  and  recommend  her  style  of  religious  life. 
John  was  too  delicately  sensitive  to  the  charms  of  such 
companionship  to  hesitate  for  one  moment.  The  journey 
was  arranged,  and  away  they  went  over  the  hills.  But, 
alas,  for  the  lady  !  the  last  half  mile  was  unapproachable  by 
wheels,  and  not  to  be  touched  by  horse's  feet.  The  lady 
and  the  poet,  who  now  took  the  lead,  had  to  foot  it  up  the 
side  of  the  cairn,  on  the  wild  brow  of  which  the  poet  began 
his  life.  They  followed  one  the  other  up  "  Stoney  Lane," 
over  granite  splinters,  pebbles,  and  small  boulders,  between 
hedges  rich,  to  the  poet's  eyes,  with  golden  furze,  and 
violets,  and  young  unfolding  ferns,  until,  coming  to  the  open 
downs,  their  turfy  path  led  through  the  furze  to  what  ap- 
peared to  be  the  last  human  dwelling  in  creation.  It  was  an 
interesting  picture,  that  of  the  peaceful  Quaker  woman  and 
the  author  of  "  Peace  Poems,"  keeping  one  another  in  peace- 
ful countenance  as  they  toiled  up  the  hill  in  the  fretting 
heat,  by  speculations  on  the  effect  of  John  Harris's  peace 
lyrics  on  the  disposition  of  a  pugnatious  world.  Even  a 
Quaker  might  feel  his  blood  stirring  as  the  poet  would  give 
vivid  reality  to  the  passage  of  the  "  War  Fiend  "  : — 

On  sweeps  the  War-fiend,  on  his  car  of  flame, 

By  hungry  coursers  drawn,  whose  iron  teeth, 

Gnash  in  their  fury  for  a  human  meal. 

On  sweeps  the  War-fiend,  shaking  his  hot  brand, 

With  red  hair  streaming  in  the  sulphur  blast, 

And  visage  dark  with  blood  !    On  sweeps  the  fiend, 

Pushing  o'er  vineyards  trampled  in  the  dust, 

O'er  palaces  and  peasant  homes  in  tears ; 

O'er  widows,  wailing  for  their  husband's  slain  • 

O'er  children,  weeping  for  their  murder'd  sires ; 

O'er  friend,  left  friendless  in  a  world  of  foes ; 

O'er  sobbing  households,  ruined,  rent,  and  riven  ; 

O'er  lover,  prostrate  on  the  field  of  death  ; 

O'er  maiden  weeping  for  that  lover  there  ; 

O'er  hamlets  drenched  in  blood,  o'er  towns  destroyed, 

O'er  cities  soaked  and  burnt  to  wretchedness ; 

O'er  plains  with  corses  strewn,  or  white  with  bones ; 


A  BARD  FROM  THE  MINE.  42/ 

O'er  countries  saturate  with  human  gore, 

Where  shrieked  the  cormorant  his  doleful  note ; 

O'er  kingdoms  shaken  with  the  thunder-blast, 

Ploughed  up  with  ruthless  bullets,  where  the  sky 

Was  hung  in  clouds  of  darkest  drapery. 

On  sweeps  the  War-fiend  on  his  maddening  march, 

With  his  stern  train  of  smiting  followers, 

That  stab,  and  shoot,  and  chop,  and  rip,  and  pierce, 

And  murder  in  broad  day.      Earth  groaned  and  writhed 

Beneath  the  huge  calamity  it  bore! 

The  only  house  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  was  a  modern  one, 
bare  and  cold — the  house  of  a  miner,  with  a  family  of  seven 
children,  living,  or  trying  to  live,  upon  forty  shillings  a  month. 
The  old  straw-thatched,  boulder-built  cottage,  with  bare 
rafters  and  clay  floor,  locally  known  as  the  "Six  Chimneys," 
was  gone,  all  excepting  the  foundations,  and  here  and  there 
a  few  feet  of  wall.  The  view  from  the  old  court  was  wide 
and  wild.  There  were  f  urzy  and  moorland  valleys,  and  some 
of  the  most  bare  and  bleak  hills  of  the  granite  district :  Carn- 
brae  on  the  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  breezy  mountain 
undulations,  over  which  lay  the  high  road  to  Helston.  The 
scene  was  inspiriting,  with  all  its  weird  loneliness.  Nature, 
however,  seemed  to  do  honour  to  the  poet,  who  had  so 
honoured  her.  The  primroses  clustered  by  joyful  crowds  in 
the  old  deserted  garden,  as  if  they  would  adorn  and  perfume 
the  memory  of  him  who  had  so  lovingly  sung  to  the  first,  for 
the  season,  that  had  smiled  on  him  : — 

Joy  to  thine  opening  eye, 

Thou  little  lonely  flower ! 
The  first  that  cometh  blossoming 

Within  my  English  bower. 
A  thousand  griefs  are  past, 

A  thousand  tears  are  shed, 
Since  on  this  bank  I  saw  thee  last 

Lift  up  thy  yellow  head. 

Hail  to  thy  timid  glance! 

And  to  thy  perfume,  hail 
And,  though  the  north  storm  may  advance, 

Oh  !  do  not  look  so  pale ; 
But  bloom  and  blossom  on 

Within  thy  mossy  bower, 
Till  Winter  and  his  storms  are  gone, 

Thou  little  trembling  flower  ! 


428  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Thou  bringest  songs  of  birds, 

And  many  a  pleasing  spell — 
The  violet-haunts  among  the  elms — 

We  know  them  passing  well. 
A  thousand  other  tales 

In  thee  the  poet  reads, 
Thy  sisters  clustering  in  our  vales, 

And  sparkling  in  our  meads ! 

Then  bloom  and  blossom  on, 

And  gem  our  wither'd  isle, 
Till  Winter  and  his  storms  are  gone, 

And  tender  sunbeams  smile  ; 
When  flowers  of  every  hue 

Shall  thy  companions  be, 
And  millions  in  my  fatherland 

Look  up  and  smile  like  thee ! 

And  under  one  of  the  rude  boulders  which  had  guarded 
that  cottage  hearth  there  was  a  bright  clump  of  violets  in. 
purest  bloom,  looking  as  if  they  were  proud  of  decorating  the. 
nook  once  enjo)red  by  him  who  gave  tuneful  welcome  to 
"  The  First  Violet  "  :— 

Hail  to  thee,  little  flower, 

Within  thy  own  dear  bower, 
Smiling  among  the  wiry  broom, 
Like  Hope's  bright  star  and  clouds  of  gloom  ! 
I  bend  me  o'er  thy  sweet  blue  eye, 
Dropping  salt  tears,  I  know  not  why, 
Feeling  a  warm  inspiring  fire, 
Sweeping  my  fingers  o'er  my  lyre, 
Singing  within  my  heathy  bower — 
Hail,  hail  to  thee,  Spring's  early  flower  ! 

Yes,  thou  art  come  to  dwell 

With  Memory  in  her  cell — 
To  call  her  from  her  still  retreat, 
And  place  Remembrance  at  her  feet. 
Though  thou  art  gilt  with  vernal  bloom, 
Thou  tellest  of  the  dark,  deep  tomb  ; 
Thou  tellest  of  the  wide  blue  sea, 
Where  waves  and  storms  are  wont  to  be, 
And  where,  upon  its  boundless  tide, 
Far,  far  away,  my  kindred  ride. 
Because  they  hasten  from  my  bower, 
Hail,  hail  to  thee,  Spring's  early  flower ! 

Oh !  could  they  hear  the  lark, 

Singing  till  it  is  dark, 
Fluttering  his  wings  those  meads  above, 
And  warblinsr  forth  his  notes  of  love 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  ,429 

And  could  they,  In  our  meadows  bound, 
Gaze  on  those  cowslips  scatter'd  round, 
See  all  those  daisies  on  the  plain, 
They  surely  would  come  back  again, 
To  feast  their  eyes  within  my  bower 
Upon  my  little  violet  flower  ! 


What  were  the  words  I  said  ? 
Thou  speakest  of  the  dead  ? 

A  J,     ,r~~  1  *i i_ii ..  _r  j 


Ah,  yes  !  thou  tellest  of  decay, 

How  earthly  splendours  pass  away ! 

An  hour  or  two — come  smile  on  me, 

And  I  shall  bid  farewell  to  thee. 

Here  birds  will  sing,  and  flowers  will  bloom, 

"When  I  am  hidden  in  the  tomb. 

But  I  would  sleep  with  thee,  sweet  flower, 

Companions  in  my  mountain  bower. 

And  oft  my  ghost  shall  roam 

Around  my  native  home, 
And  here,  beneath  the  wan  moon's  light, 
Weave  garlands  for  the  brow  of  Night. 
Blue  herald  of  a  numerous  line, 
Stamp'd  with  the  mighty  Maker's  sign, 
The  impress  of  the  Hand  Divine ; 
Blending,  thou  seem'stto  kiss  the  sod — 
Who  sees  thee  sees  a  ray  of  God ! 
Because  He  shines  within  my  bower, 
Hail,  hail  to  thee,  Spring's  early  flower  ! 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  on  the  brow  of  that  hill,  amid  the 
ruins  of  the  old  cottage  home,  and  awaken  in  the  soul  the 
music  of  the  verse  which  was  inspired  there  : — 

Hail  to  thee,  mountain  birth-place!     Not  a  rock, 

O'er-written  with  the  stanzas  of  the  storm  ; 

And  many  rocks  are  shooting  from  thy  crown, 

And  hanging  from  thy  girdle — not  a  rock 

On  which  my  sire  and  grandsire  oft  have  stood, 

And  where  I've  climbed  in  childhood's  cheerful  spring, 

Gazing  into  the  deep  blue  summer  sky, 

And  smiled  to  see  the  earth  so  beautiful — 

No,  not  a  rock  around  my  native  place, 

But  what  I  love,  as  if  akin  to  me ! 

There's  not  a  hedge-row,  gemmed  with  ivy-leaves, 

There's  not  a  floweret  in  my  father's  lea, 

There's  not  a  sofa,  with  its  seat  of  sod, 

Where  the  tired  pilgrim  sits  in  Nature's  hall, 

And  gazes  on  the  portraits  of  the  past ; 

There's  not  a  moss-bower  in  the  dear  old  croft. 


4jO  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"Where  the  young  muses  wooed  the  singing  boy, 
To  list  at  evening  to  the  harping  breeze  ; 
There's  not  a  wild  cave  where  the  tempests  roar, 
Rolling  their  bass  blasts  round  the  fire-scathed  rocks  ; 
There's  not  a  flaw  upon  its  furrow'd  front, 
But  seems  even  now  a  portion  of  my  life  ! 

To  look  around,  however,  upon  that  scene,  as  it  first  enters 
the  eye  of  a  rambler,  and  then  to  look  at  it  in  the  light  which 
the  poet's  genius  casts  upon  it,  is  to  be  strongly  disposed  to 
the  doctrine  that  the  beauty  and  the  grandeur,  the  interest 
and  the  lovableness  of  nature  are  rather  in  the  soul  of  the 
beholder ;  or  that  a  poet's  imagination  is  creative,  and  has 
power  for  ever  to  invest  with  charms  that  for  which  common 
observers  have  little  or  no  natural  taste. 

"  If  this  scenery  is  so  delightfully  inspiring  to  thee,"  said 
Harris's  Quaker  companion,  "  what  will  the  lovely  neigh- 
bourhood of  Falmouth  be  ?  " 

Ah  !  good  lady ;  Falmouth,  with  all  its  beauty  of  surround- 
ings, though  now  to  be  his  abode,  can  never  have  an  inspiring 
power  for  our  bard  equal  to  that  of  his  own  native,  dear  old 
Bolennowe  Hill,  and  its  kindred  cairns  ! 

n  One  of  the  most  touching  episodes  in  the  life  of  John 
Harris  was  his  first  reading  Campbell's  Gertrude  of 
Wyoming.  He  had  selected  it  from  the  library  in  the  village 
school,  and,  pocketing  the  prize,  hastened  to  a  secluded  place, 
where  he  might  peruse  it  in  quiet.  "  Here,"  he  S3ys,  "  I 
threw  myself  down,  and  drew  the  book  from  my  pocket.  At 
my  feet  a  clear  stream  went  wandering  on  its  way  ;  birds 
sang  on  the  branches  of  the  trees  over  my  head;  sweet 
flowers  shed  a  delicious  fragrance  around ;  bees  hummed, 
and  butterflies  floated  among  the  honeyed  cups  ;  while 
before  me,  as  through  a  silver  vista,  rose  the  sun-lighted 
hills  of  the  Land's  End,  and  the  blue  waters  of  the  Atlantic 
Ocean." 

Among  his  noblest  effusions,  is  the  poem  on  the  a  Land's 
End;"  and  in  that  characteristic  utterance,  he  has  finely 
associated  the  wild  grandeurs  of  the  old  headland  with  the 
cherished  legendary  lore  of  the  old  Cornish  folk  : — 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  43 1 

Haunt  of  the  sea-bird,  city  of  the  crag-, 
Kingdom  of  granite,  gallery  of  the  muse, 
Poem  of  wonders,  page  for  poet's  eye ; 
Storm-brewing  chamber,  whence  the  winds  are  loosed, 
That  crack  and  tumble  through  the  universe, 
Nature's  great  organ-hall,  where  blasts  of  song 
Shiver  among  her  mossy-mantled  priests, 
And  swell  across  the  mountains  and  the  vales, 
Thundering  at  storm-time,  murmuring  in  the  calm, 
Flowing  at  day-dawn,  rumbling  through  the  dark, 
And  crashing  'mid  the  music  of  the  main  ; 
Stirring  the  soul's  depth  like  a  lofty  psalm  ; 
When,  standing  here  with  nature  and  with  God, 
How  thy  full  chorus  lifts  the  wanderer  ! 

The  Cornish  streamer  was  a  rare  old  man : 
Strange  stories  by  the  firelight  he  would  tell, 
When  angry  winds  went  roaring  round  the  rocks, 
And  not  a  star  looked  down  upon  the  snow. 
His  audience  were  the  petted  girl  and  boy, 
And  on  the  oak-stock's  end  the  favourite  cat. 
Strange  stories,  bordering  on  the  marvellous : 
How  once  these  valleys  were  brimfull  of  tin, 
Before  King  Solomon's  great  fane  was  built ; 
When  Jews  did  smelt  within  these  curious  coves  ; 
And  oft  a  streamer's  fortune  had  been  made 
By  stumbling  on  a  Jew's  house  wonderful ; 
Of  giant's  living  in  those  mighty  rocks, 
With  heaps  of  pearl,  and  waggon-loads  of  gold  ; 
Of  shining  creatures  coming  from  the  sea, 
And  making  poor  men  richer  far  than  kings  ; 
Of  horses  running  swifter  than  the  winds, 
And  bearing  fury  comets  on  their  backs  ; 
Of  little  pixies,  wearing  small  red  cloaks, 
And  nightly  riding  timid  wights  to  death  ; 
Of  wizards  changing  brands  to  silver  bars ; 
Of  fiery  dragons  rolling  through  the  air, 
Uprising  from  old  Cornwall's  copper-caves ; 
And  one  dark  evening,  when  the  winds  were  high, 
And  the  fierce  lightnings  hissed  across  his  shed, 
And  thunder  rumbled  up  the  steep  Land's  End, 
He  filled  his  pipe,  and  told  some  cheerful  tales. 

A  passing  visit  to  the  poet's  widowed  mother,  who  was 
calmly  waiting  for  her  summons  to  paradise,  in  a  village  not 
far  from  her  son's  birth-place,  can  never  be  forgotten.  The 
old  woman,  more  than  three  score  years  and  ten,  still  retained 
in  her  person  enough  to  show  that  her  son  John  had 
inherited  from  her  his  most  marked  and  expressive  features. 


432  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

She  was  evidently  a  woman  used  to  deep  communings  with 
herself  and  the  spiritual  world.  Her  voice,  while  she  quietly 
rejoiced  in  hope  of  her  heavenly  rest,  called  up  the  touching 
verses  of  one  of  her  son's  sweetest  lyrics  : — 

My  mother's  voice !  it  haunts  me  when 

I'm  sitting  in  my  cot, 
Surrounded  with  my  little  ones, 

The  sharers  of  my  lot. 
Their  voices  chime  like  music-chords 

Within  my  humble  bower  ; 
But  this  is  heard  above  them  all, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shower. 

I  hear  it  when  the  midnight  winds 

Are  rushing  o'er  my  head, 
And  busy  thought  drives  sleep  away 

From  visiting  my  bed. 
It  comes  on  slumber's  downy  wings, 

'Tis  blended  with  my  dreams, 
When  wandering  over  unknown  lands, 

Among  the  crystal  streams. 

I  hear  it  when  the  storm  is  high, 

And  when  the  winds  are  still ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  shelter'd  vale, 

And  on  the  storm-beat  hill. 
Yes  !  floating  o'er  its  rocks  of  heath, 

That  silvery  voice  I  hear, 
Above  the  ruins  of  the  past. 

In  cadence  sweet  and  clear. 

I  hear  it  in  the  busy  throng  ; 

I  hear  it  when  alone  ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  darksome  earth, 

The  same  melodious  tone. 
I  hear  it  when  my  heart  is  sad, 

And  when  my  lips  rejoice  ; 
It  floats  around  me  everywhere, 

That  same  mysterious  voice ! 

It  leads  me  back  when  life  was  new  ; 

Tells  of  those  happy  hours 
I  passed  in  childhood's  sunny  vale, 

Among  the  opening  flowers  ; 
Brings  back  again  my  early  home, 

That  home  of  homes  to  me, 
Engraven  on  my  heart  of  hearts, 

For  ever  there  to  be  ! 


A    BARD    FROM    THE    MINE.  433 

The  music  of  this  voice  I  hear 

Above  the  world's  rough  roar, 
Like  whispers  from  another  sphere, 

Some  calm  Elysian  shore ; 
Sweet  harp-notes  from  the  lyre  of  Time, 

Around  me  and  within  ; 
They  gush  with  conqu'ring  ecstacy, 

To  lure  my  soul  from  sin. 

I  hear  it  in  the  moonlight  bower, 

And  by  the  murmuring  stream  ! 
I  hear  it  when  spring's  earliest  flower 

Smiles  in  the  sun's  glad  beam. 
In  weal,  or  woe,  where'er  I  be 

On  this  revolving  sphere, 
Above  the  thunderings  of  the  world, 

My  mother's  voice  I  hear  ! 

That  voice,  perhaps,  is  now  hushed — heard  no  more  on 
earth,  except  by  the  poet's  own  soul's  ear.  Other  voices  still 
live  to  cheer  his  home.  That  home  has  comforts  more 
befitting  his  later  life  than  those  afforded  by  the  cottage  of  his 
boyhood.  When  his  early  inspirations  came  upon  him,  he 
"  sometimes  found  himself  without  pencil  or  ink  ;  but  he  was 
not  to  be  deterred  by  such  a  difficulty.  Not  he,  indeed  ! 
Were  there  not  blackberries  growing  on  the  hedges  which 
lined  the  mountain-road  leading  to  the  mine  ?  John  found 
that  blackberry-juice  furnished  a  cheap  and  ready  substitute 
for  ink,  and  more  than  one  of  his  idylls  was  written  with 
the  homely  and  unusual  fluid.  But  his  real  trials  came  from 
the  frosts  of  winter.  Then  he  would  sit  down  in  his  bed- 
room, his  feet  wrapped  in  his  mother's  woollen  cloak,  his 
writing-desk  being  a  small  pair  of  bellows."  Now,  however, 
pen,  ink,  and  desk,  are  within  comfortable  reach  •  and  his 
dwelling  is  garnished,  as  a  poet's  home  should  be,  with  the 
best  poetical  literature  of  his  country. 


F  F 


4.34  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM, 


CHAPTER  XXI 


A  KENTISH    LYRIC. 


He  looks  abroad  into  the  varied  field 
Of  Nature  ;  and  though  poor,  perhaps,  compared 
With  those  whose  mansions  glitter  in  his  sight. 
Calls  the  delightful  scenery  all  his  own. 

^> 

v^^pHIS  is  Mountfield,"  said  the  driver  of  our  com- 
Vt  ©*Sr  f°rtable  little  open  carriage,  in  which  for  a  few 
<  \itnt  m^es  we  naa"  Deen  enj°ying  the  lively  pleasures 
■~ff\  which  belong  to  communion  with  new  scenes  in 
i  nature.  "This  is  the  house,"  said  he,  as  he 
drove  through  the  gateway  on  the  road-side.  It  was  in  Kent 
— old  Kent,  as  we  had  always  called  it,  because  it  was  old 
enough  to  have  a  remarkable  history.  But  now  it  appeared 
with  as  bright  and  fresh  a  complexion,  and  turned  upon  us  a 
smile  as  sweet  and  winsome,  as  if  no  years  had  passed  since 
the  Creator  first  saw  its  ripeness  of  youth  unveiled.  The 
country  was  new  to  us.  Our  road  lay,  now  through  open 
fields,  and  now  amidst  shadowy  foliage,  fruit  plantations,  or 
hop-grounds,  or  orchards.  Everything  was  giving  early  and 
beautiful  promise  of  fruitful  life.  The  hops  were  putting 
forth  their  young  vigour,  and  were  already  tinging  the  vine- 
yard-like slopes  with  green.  Many  hands  were  busily  em- 
ployed in  tying  up  the  young  plants  so  as  to  sustain  their 
upward  growth  )  while  they  seemed  as  if  they  were  giving 
us  wayside  lessons  on  the  importance  and  necessity  of  early 
training  and  timely  aid  to  young  minds  in  the  spring-tide  of 
their  life.  How  many  a  young  plant  has  failed  to  rise  into 
fruitful  maturity  for  lack  of  seasonable  help  amidst  the  ex- 
posures and  weaknesses  of  its  early  springing  ?  Happy  is  the 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC. 


435 


young  spirit  which  submissively  allows  itself  to    be  gently 
trained  to  dependence  on  Divine  strength! 

But  we  were  on  our  way  to  Boughton,  and  were  on  the 
look  out  for  Mountfield,  the  home  of  one  whose  "  Kentish 
Lyrics  "  had  often  given  means  of  expressing  our  sympathy 
with  nature.  We  drove  up  at  length  before  a  comfortable- 
looking  villa,  built  in  old  English  style,  and  surrounded  by 
sheltering  beauties  of  wood,  shrubberies,  and  flower  borders. 
It  was  a  lovely  retreat — a  fitting  home  for  a  poet.  Our  mind 
and  heart  already  claimed  an  interest  in  those  whom  we 
hoped  to  meet  there.  There  are  some  human  spirits  whose 
presence  seems  to  hallow  the  spots  on  which  they  breathe  j 
some  action  of  their  life,  some  blessed  words  from  their  lips, 
some  ever-living  lines  from  their  pens,  shed  a  sacred  light 
upon  their  country,  their  birth-place,  their  dwelling.  This 
was  the  dwelling  of  one  whom  we  had  learnt  to  love  for  the 
sweet,  natural  music  of  his  songs  ;  and  now  we  had  a  curious, 
indefinable  feeling,  which,  in  the  anticipation  of  a  first  inter- 
view, inspired  the  question,  "  Will  his  person  answer  to  our 
first  idea  of  one  whose  poetic  utterances  have  been  so  plea- 
sant to  us  ?"  The  greeting  came.  Our  previous  conceptions 
were  more  than  realized.  It  was  a  calm  joy  to  see  Benjamin 
Gough  amidst  his  own  "  woodlands : "  the  agreeably  set  figure, 
the  well-borne  compact  head,  with  its  tingings  of  silver ;  the 
good-humoured,  thoroughly  English  face  j  the  eye-sparkle  of 
genius,  the  play  of  passing  thought  over  the  harmonious 
features, — all  were  in  happy  keeping  with  the  gentle  inner 
circle  of  his  home,  and  its  outward  surroundings.  What  we 
had  enjoyed  in  our  author's  Lyrics  seemed  now  to  touch  us 
with  more  lively  sweetness,  and  to  come  pleasantly  upon  the 
heart,  as  if  reflected  from  everything  which  distinguished 
the  abode  of  benevolence,  taste,  fine  feeling,  and  piety. 
Who  could  wonder  at  the  poet  of  Mountfield  sometimes 
hearing  "angel  whispers"  amidst  the  quiet  scenes  of  his 
life,  and  singing  of  "angel  visits"?  How  all  things  are 
hushed  around  us,  and  how  still  the  inner  world  becomes, 
while  he  sings, — 


43^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Have  you  heard  an  angel's  whisper, 

Or  the  cadence  of  a  hymn, 
Sung  by  a  voice  celestial, 

Some  radiant  cherubim  ? 
Once  in  the  lonely  woodland, 

Beneath  the  harvest  moon, 
Entranc'd,  I  knelt  and  listen'd, 

At  midnight's  solemn  noon. 

The  earth  lay  round  me  sleeping 

In  undisturb'd  repose, 
And  zephyrs  stay'd  their  breathing, 

And  not  a  sound  arose ; 
The  nightingale's  sweet  trillings 

Of  melody  had  gushed 
Upon  my  ravished  ear,  but  now 

Her  warbling  voice  was  hushed. 

It  was  the  reign  of  silence, 

The  aspen-leaves  were  still, 
And  motionless  as  death, 

While  stars,  at  their  sweet  will, 
Look'd  down  in  radiance  loving  ; 

So  did  the  full  round  moon, 
While  all  my  thoughts  rose  heav'nwards 

At  that  calm  midnight  moon. 

A  gentle  voice  spoke  softly, 

In  words  of  peace  and  love, 
Of  higher,  nobler  being 

Awaiting  us  above ; 
Of  dear  ones  with  the  angels, 

Who  once  were  here  below, 
Waiting  till  we  rejoin  them, 

And  their  high  glory  know. 

Of  heaven,  where  knowledge  knoweth, 

And  the  mind's  comprehension 
Expands  for  ever,  grasping 

Unlimited  extension ; 
Where  God,  and  life  eternal, 

And  purity,  and  joy, 
Fill  the  immortal  spirit 

With  bliss  without  alloy. 

Then  came  such  strains  of  melody, 

Ethereal  on  my  ears, 
As  evermore  is  echoing 

Along  those  happy  spheres.  ' 
Surely  the  song  of  angels 

That  summer  night  I  heard, 
And  my  inmost  soul  adoring 

With  those  high  hymns  was  stirr'd. 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  437 

Was  it  a  dream  ?  so  holy 

That  night  was  every  thought, 
That  woodland  was  a  saered  place, 

With  heavenly  blessing  fraught. 
And  still  those  angel  whispers, 

And  the  cadence  of  those  songs, 
Heard  on  that  summer  midnight, 

My  memory  prolongs. 

The  tone  of  these  verses  calls  up  recollections  of  our 
rambles  through  the  hop-gardens  to  and  from  the  house  of 
prayer  in  Boughton.  It  was  while  we  talked  by  the  way  to 
and  from  the  religious  services  which  we  enjoyed  together 
for  a  time  in  that  sequestered  but  cheery  little  town  among 
orchards  and  gardens,  that  the  poet's  religious  character  was 
felt  to  be  one  which  exemplified  what  has  always  appeared 
to  us  as  blessedly  possible — the  consistent  combination  of 
holy  delight  in  "the  things  which  are  seen  "  with  pure  en- 
joyment of  "the  things  which  are  not  seen."  To  our 
Methodist  poet,  Creation  and  Providence  and  Grace  were 
as  one.  His  tender  sympathies  and  intercourse  with  nature 
seemed  to  be  ever  sweetly  passing  into  loving  converse  with 
inspired  truth  and  "communion  of  the  Holy  Ghost."  In 
this  the  Kentish  singer  is  something  like  the  Psalmist  of 
higher  inspiration.  David  opens  one  of  his  sublime  hymns 
(Psalm  xix.)  with  rapturous  admiration  of  the  glories  of  the 
firmament,  the  harmonies  of  day  and  night,  the  order  and 
beauty  of  fixed  and  revolving  worlds,  and  then  passes,  with- 
out any  conscious  break  of  thought,  or  without  apparently 
interrupting  his  current  of  feeling,  to  the  converting  power, 
the  teaching  wisdom,  the  enlightening  and  consoling  virtues 
of  God's  revealed  law.  To  the  Divine  psalmist  there  is  the 
same  law  above  and  within.  The  lesser  and  greater  beauty, 
the  lesser  and  greater  order,  the  lesser  and  greater  law  are 
all  one.  The  worlds  above  and  the  kingdom  within  bear  the 
same  Divine  impress  ;  and 

The  voice  that  rolls  the  stars  along 
Speaks  all  the  promises. 

In  habitually  devout  recognition  of  this  oneness  of  God's 


43§  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

government,  this  unity  of  Divine  law,  our  poetic  friend  some- 
times shows  himself  ready,  too,  to  catch  the  spirit  of  the  old 
prophetic  bard,  who  so  finely  indicates  the  essential  connec- 
tion between  the  principles  on  which  the  great  Ruler  deals 
with  sinful  men  and  the  laws  by  which  He  controls  material 
powers 5  showing  that  God's  manifestations  cf  Himself  in  the 
sublime  and  more  awful  transactions  of  nature  are  not  only 
symbolic  of  His  retributive  and  corrective  administrations 
among  moral  agents,  but  that  they  are  designedly  made  to 
take  their  part  in  the  accomplishment  of  His  moral  and  saving 
purposes  respecting  man.  Not  only,  as  David  says,  are  the 
laws  of  natural  beauty  and  order  one  with  the  published  laws 
of  His  word,  but,  as  Nahum  declares  (ch.  i.  v.  3),  His  rules 
for  nature's  more  terrible  operations  belong  to  the  code  of 
His  gracious  discipline  for  human  character  and  life.  "  The 
Lord  is  slow  to  anger,  and  great  in  power,  and  will  not  at  all 
acquit  the  wicked  ;  the  Lord  hath  his  way  in  the  whirlwind, 
and  in  the  storm,  and  the  clouds  are  the  dust  of  his  feet."  So 
our  poet  sings,  as  the  prophet's  paraphrast,  with  a  voice  of 
mingling  force  and  beauty : — 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind ! 

Whence  comest  thou  ? — stop  and  say  ; 

And  whither  art  thou  bound  to  day? 

What  dost  thou  mean  by  that  furious  shriek, 
Like  the  panther's  howl  or  hyena's  yell, 

In  some  lone  jungle  where  lions  wreak 
Their  wrath,  and  ring  the  traveller's  knell  ? 

Moaning  and  groaning  like  dark  sprites  intoning 

Horrible  dirges  for  souls  that  are  lost, 
Whirling  and  swirling — new  terrors  unfurling, 
Now  with  a  roar — as  a  thunder-clap  loud. 

The  heavens  are  bowed,  by  the  tempest  tost, 
And  a  black  cloud 
Spreads  o'er  the  earth  like  a  funeral  shroud. 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
Ethereal  express,  at  high-pressure  speed, 

Cyclone — hurricane — gale,  all  in  one  ! 
Rushing  on  and  on,  without  fear  or  heed, 

Till  thy  vengeful  work  is  done. 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  439 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
Sweeping  like  lightning  on  thy  path, 
Over  earth,  over  sea,  with  the  sword  of  wrath  ; 
Who  can  image  thy  shape,  or  picture  thy  form, 
Riding  upon  the  wings  of  the  storm  ? 
Raising  the  ocean  surge — riving  the  rocks — 
Chanting  thy  bass  to  the  thunder's  shocks ; 
With  cheeks  distended,  and  wild,  fiery  eyes, 
Piercing  the  murk  of  the  wintry  skies, 
Girded  with  strength,  and  belted  with  might, 
Rapid  as  shooting-stars  in  flight — 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
Great  is  thy  power,  and  none  may  stay, 
Or  hold  thee  back  on  thy  stormy  way  ! 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
Before  thee  the  woodland  trees  are  rent, 

And  the  gnarly  trunks  of  the  ancient  oaks 
Are  twisted  and  bent. 
The  woodman  strikes  full  a  thousand  strokes 

Ere  the  forest  tree  is  fell'd, 
But  the  old  giant  Wind,  when  he  comes  for  loot, 
Grasps  the  tree  and  tears  it  up  by  the  root 

Before  his  fury  is  quell'd. 
Down  to  the  sea-side  follow  his  track, 
And  see  maiming  and  slaughter,  grim  and  black, 
Mountainous  waves,  cresty  with  foam, 
Shipwreck  and  death  on  the  threshold  of  home; 
Signals  outflashing,  vessels  down-crashing, 
One  on  other  tost — both  to  be  lost. 
Flags  of  distress — crews  upon  decks, 
The  bleak  shore  strewn  with  corpses  and  wrecks — 
Oh  !  wind,  put  back  thy  sword  to  its  sheath, 
To-night  thou  hast  reap'd  a  harvest  of  death  ! 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
I  would  not  misjudge  thee  as  though  thou  hadst  sinn'd  ; 
No  tyrant  art  thou,  nor  despot  uncheck'd, 
Though  forests  are  fell'd,  and  navies  are  wreck'd  ; 
The  evil,  by  men  long  misunderstood, 
He  only  can  turn  into  infinite  good, 

Who  doth  as  He  lists, 
And  holdeth  the  turbulent  winds  in  His  fists. 

Oh  !  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
Trembling  I  own 
Thy  voice  divine  ! 
God's  high  behest  is  thine. 

His  will  be  done  ! 
The  zephyr  cannot  wander  through  the  trees, 
Or  whisper  in  the  summer  breeze, 


44°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Apart  from  God. 
Storms  prelude  calms  ; 
And  oft  the  chastening  rod 
Attunes  for  blessed  psalms. 

So,  wind,  terrible  wind  ! 
I  will  not  fear  thee  more  or  deem  thee  wrong. 
But  bow  in  reverence  meet,  and  find 

Sweet  solace  in  submission's  humblest  song. 

The  taste  of  our  songster  is  distinctively  rural.    Nor  could 
such  a  taste  ever  be  indulged  and  cultured  in  more  congenial 
surroundings  than  those  which  engirdled  the  rural  songster's 
home.     His  characteristic  strain  of  song  seemed  to  be  as 
much  the  natural  music  of  his  chosen  retreat  as  was  that  of 
the  nightingale  which  nestled  and  warbled  familiarly  by  his 
chamber-window,  as  if  it  knew  him  to  be  a  fellow  native  of 
its  own  choral  class.      Within  comfortable  distance   of  the 
hop-grounds,    orchards,    fruit-gardens,    and    meadow-slopes 
which  immediately  surrounded  our  good  poet's  home,  there 
was  a  verdant  hill   country,   in   whose   leafy  retirements  we 
once  enjoyed  a  most  delicious  ramble  with   the   intelligent, 
tasteful,  and  fine  spirited  members  of  the  Mountfield  family. 
It  was  a  bright  morning.     We   were   a  lightsome  party, 
snugly  packed  in  a  lightsome  open  carriage — not  a  gig,  either 
single  or    double  ;  nor   a    barouche ;    nor  a    landau  ;  nor  a 
waggonette  j — but  something  that  combined   all   the  advan- 
tages  of   all  these,  without  being  exactly  like  either.    It  is 
enough  to  say  that  it  was  a  Kentish  conveyance — on  springs, 
of  course.      We  were  the  friends  and  guests  of  a  Methodist 
psalmist,  and  might  be  called  a  Methodist  party.     Neverthe- 
less, we  were  merry  ;  though  as  yet  we  had  not  begun  to  act 
on  the  advice  of  that  inspired  man,  whose  voice  sometimes 
gave  out  sounds  of  rich  poetic  grace,  amidst  his  deep-toned 
prophet-like  utterances.     "  Is  any    merry  ?  "  said  he,   "  let 
him  sing  psalms."     Hitherto,  however,  all  our  "psalms  and 
hymns    and   spiritual    songs"  had   been    sung   within  our- 
selves ;  and  the  inward  music  gave  no  outward  sign,  except 
in  cheerful  faces,  quiet  laughs,  and  happy  glances.     Some  of 
those  who  witnessed  our  starting  might   have  thought,  as  a 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  44I 

fish-wife    once    did,    when    she    saw    a    Methodist  band  of 
choristers  getting  into  a  barge  for  the  purpose  of  floating  up 
a  beautiful  river  that  they  might  enjoy  the  music  of  Handel's 
choruses    among    the    pensive   echoing   woods.     The  good 
woman  expressed  her  wonderment,  as  the  barge  moved  off, 
by  exclaiming,  "  Well,  I  declare !  the  Methodists  are  going 
to  enjoy  themselves!  "     Yes,  my  good  dame!     And  why 
not  ?     No  people  have  more  right  to  enjoy  themselves  than 
real  Methodists ;  for   real  Methodists    know   that   genuine 
Christianity  is  the  happy  religion.      At   all  events,  we  were 
happy  enough  in  our  carriage  on  our  way  to  the  woods.  We 
kept  up  our  gaiety  until  we  reached  the  top  of  a  hill  on  the 
road  to  Canterbury.     Indeed,  we  might  have  been  taken  for 
Canterbury    pilgrims.      There    had    been    side-long    chat, 
pleasant  bits  of  word-play ;  now  a  story  or  a  tale,  and  then  a 
scrap  from  an  elect  poet  to  illustrate  some  passing  thought 
or  expressed  sentiment.      Could  the  spirit  of  Chaucer  have 
seen  us,  or  listened  to  our  tangled  talk,  he  might  have  felt 
that  it  is  possible  for   pilgrims  to  beguile  their  way  in  a 
manner  as  pleasant  as  his,  but  harmless.   Our  fresh  morning 
joys  were  damped  a  little  as  we  reached  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  where  we  were  to   leave  our  carriage,  and  strike  into 
the  copse  for  a  woodland  ramble.      Just  then  a  storm-cloud 
came  rolling  down,  and  we  were  in  danger  of  being  drenched. 
A  neighbouring  dwelling,  however,  furnished  the  ladies  with 
wrappers,  and  an  enormous  gig-umbrella  was  lent,  which 
might  have  served  to   canopy   the   out-door  throne    of   an 
eastern  despot.      Thus    equipped,   we    passed   through   the 
shower,  and  pursued  our  way  among  the  freshened  woods. 
Our  gigantic  parachute  was  now  closed,  and  served  either  as 
a  pilgrim's  staff,  or  was  borne  aloft  in  the  style  of  a  furled 
banner.     We  were   merry   again.     Our  path  led  us  along 
copsy  hill-sides,  or 

Down  into  hollows,  where  the  running  brook 
Warbles  old  tunes  from  nature's  service-book, 
Where,  'midst  the  willows  and  the  wild-wood  flowers, 
The  birds  are  in  their  bowers. 


442  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Or  through  bending  valleys,  where  scattered  cottages  looked 

happy   amidst    their    leafy    shelter,    with    every    nook   and 

corner  of  ground  around  them   made  to  pay  tribute  to  the 

table  of  the  rustic  household,  or  to  regale  their  senses  with 

the  simple  beauty,  rich   colouring,   or  delicate  perfume  of 

dear  old  English  flowers.     We  were  all  happily  alive  amidst 

the  peaceful  life  of  nature;  every  ear  was  open  to  its  whispers, 

every  soul  tenderly  responsive  to  its  touches.     One  was  soon' 

in  enthusiastic  pursuit  of  botanical  favourites,  another  was 

distinguishing  the  different  air-tones  in  different  leafage,  or 

listening  to 

A  hallelujah  chorus  on  the  trees ; 

and  another  quietly  enjoying  variations  of  bird-music.  By- 
and-by  a  shady  dell  invited  us  down  to  emulate  each  other 
in  pursuit  of  fern  treasures.  At  length  we  seemed  to  hear 
our  poet's  voice  of  challenge : — 

Come,  climb  with  me  this  hill-side;  on  the  top 

You'll  gain  a  glorious  view  of  land  and  sea, 
Thousands  of  acres  waving  with  their  crop 

Of  ripening  corn.     The  sweet  variety 
Of  fields  and  foliage,  all  in  summer  sheen, 

And  pastures  dotted  o'er  with  flocks  of  sheep 
And  herds  of  cattle.     What  a  lovely  scene 

Opens  before  us  !     See  the  river  creep 
In  silence,  like  a  silvery  line  of  light, 

To  where  the  ships  lie  in  yon  ocean  bay, 
And  the  wide  world  of  water  is  in  sight. 
Oh,  broad  expanse  of  land  !     Oh,  wondrous  sea! 
Here  will  we  sing,  O  Lord,  a  psalm  of  praise  to  Thee. 

All  were  agreed  to  reach  the  summit  of  a  rounded  hill 
which,  crowned  with  clumps  of  pine,  overtopped  its  neigh- 
bours, and  looked  out  over  a  rich  expansion  of  landscape. 
There  was  the  old-storied  sea-board  of  Kent.  There  was 
the  sea,  the  North  Sea,  seemingly  at  rest,  still  smiling  after 
so  many  generations  of  friends  and  foes  had  come  and  gone. 
There  were  the  strange  minglings  of  land  and  water  which 
appeared  to  offer  mysterious  guardianship  to  the  most 
populous  city  of  Europe  ;  and  there  were  the  rich  undu- 
lating lands  where  the  first  Teuton  settlers  laid  the  ground- 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  443 

work  of  English  greatness.  Immediately  beneath  and  around, 
there  were  the  tranquil  scenes  which  were  so  congenial  to 
the  distinctive  taste  of  our  poetic  friend,  and  among  which 
he  had  been  used  to  catch  his  happiest  inspirations.  We 
passed  through  some  of  these  on  our  way  home.  There 
were  successive  unfoldings  of  exquisitely-finished  natural 
pictures  of  rural  life ;  and  these  furnished  us  with  themes 
for  pleasant  interchanges  of  thought  and  feeling  when  we 
were  once  more  seated  under  the  poet's  roof.  The  recol- 
lections of  that  day's  enjoyable  stroll  continue  to  live,  and 
have  been  made  more  certainly  permanent  by  him  with 
whose  character  and  gifts  they  were  first  associated ;  for,  in 
response  to  our  subsequent  allusions  to  those  charming 
scenes  of  Kentish  rural  life,  Mr.  Gough's  genius  and  taste 
pictured  for  us  "A  Rural  Sketch": — 

Here  is  a  pleasant  nook, 

A  beautiful  recess  of  country  life, 

Sequestered  and  alone, 

But  exquisite  in  charms  unknown. 

Few  see  it ;  but  on  all  who  look 

It  leaves  an  impress  which  no  after-strife, 

Or  wear  and  tear  of  travel,  can  erase, 

While  memory  holds  its  place. 

A  rural  homestead,  with  a  field  in  front, 
Where  cows  are  grazing,  and  a  flock  of  sheep, 
In  rumination  or  asleep, 
Lie  in  the  shade  of  an  ancestral  oak, 
Which  for  long  centuries  has  borne  the  brunt 
Of  blast  and  storm,  surviving  every  stroke, 
And  smiling  now  in  foliage  green  and  young, 
As  when  stern  Cromwell  ruled,  and  Milton  sung. 

Then  on  the  greensward,  by  the  cottage  door, 
Sweet  children  gambol,  and  their  merry  laugh 
Has  nature's  truest  ring  for  evermore. 
Yon  ancient  grandsire,  leaning  on  his  staff", 
Watches  their  sports,  and  thinks  of  days  of  yore, 
When  he  tripped  lightly  on  the  self-same  green ; 
But  now  he  is  fourscore, 
In  healthful  age  serene. 
The  watch-dog  follows,  barking  as  he  goes, 
But  every  utterance  chimes  with  the  delight 
Of  happy  children,  as  it  flows 
Like  sunshine,  warm  and  bright. 


444  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

A  flight  of  pigeons,  fluttering  to  and  fro, 
Add  to  the  rural  scene ; 
And  a  pure  streamlet,  in  its  crystal  flow, 
Runs  on  where  bending  willows  grow 
In  double  ranks,  and  sings  between. 

Beside  the  farm-yard  gate  old  Dobbin  stands, 

While  from  the  topmost  rail 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion  sounds  afar 

Athwart  the  wooded  vale, 

Answered  from  neighbour  lands. 

The  cheery  sparrows  chirp  along  the  eaves, 

And  swallows  twitter  on  the  chimney-top  ; 

A  summer  rustle  is  among  the  leaves, 

And  snowy  blossoms  from  the  hawthorn  drop. 

The  garden  smiles  beyond  with  common  flowers, 

Where  pinks  and  roses  hold  their  rival  sway ; 

Here  flames  a  tall  laburnum,  golden,  gay ; 

And  there  an  odorous  jessamine  embowers 

A  summer-house ;  while  up  the  thatch  and  o'er, 

An  ivy  creeps,  and  round  the  window  clings ; 

While,  in  a  wicker  cage  above  the  door, 

A  blackbird  sings. 

Oh,  happy  nook !     Oh,  beautiful  retreat ! 
Screen'd  from  the  wintry  storm  and  summer's  heat, 
Where  peace  and  plenty  always  are  at  home, 
As  generations  go  and  come. 
Strangers  to  fashion,  and  the  dreams  of  wealth, 
Childhood  and  age  alike  bring  peace  and  health  ; 
In  virtue  train'd,  their  peasant  path  is  trod, 
They  read  their  Bible,  and  they  love  their  God. 
Their  joys  are  blooming  ever,  and  increase ; 
They  live  contented,  and  they  die  in  peace. 
Heroes  may  live  in  marble,  misers  old 
Die  midst  their  glittering  piles,  and  grasp  their  gold  ; 
But  pure  enjoyment,  springing  fresh  and  rife, 
Hallows  a  cottage  and  a  country  life. 

Mr.  Gough  might  never  have  entertained  the  hope  that 
the  lyrics  so  happily  expressive  of  his  own  joy  amidst  the 
gentle  and  quiet  beauties  of  Kent  would  ever  tell  with  sweet 
and  refreshing  power  upon  downcast  spirits,  amidst  the  wild 
and  weird  scenery  of  West  Cornwall.  Yet  so  it  has  been. 
A  man  and  wife  once  sat  pensively  side  by  side  at  their 
family  hearth  at  the  close  of  a  simple  meal.  They  were 
silent,  and  their  silence  was  plaintive.     The  woman  felt  that 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  445 

i  had  cost  her  some  care  and  pains  to  furnish  the  meal  which 
her  husband  had  shared,  and  she  knew  that  the  difficulty 
was  growing  from  day  to  day.  She  was  disposed  to  hide 
from  her  companion,  as  long  as  she  could,  the  cares  that 
were  gathering  upon  her  heart ;  while  her  husband,  on  his 
part,  wanted,  if  possible,  to  keep  from  her  sight  the  shadows 
which  seemed  to  be  falling  upon  his  soul  from  his  darkening 
prospects.    The  wife  at  length  broke  the  silence,  by  saying — 

"  We  are  in  want  of  coal,  my  dear.'' 

"Coal  again  !  "  was  the  reply.  "  I  don't  know  what  to 
do  !  Coal  seems  a  necessity,  but  I  have  no  means  of  getting 
a  supply  for  more  than  a  day  or  two.  We  cannot  keep  pace 
with  advancing  prices." 

The  appearance  and  position  of  the  saddened  couple  were 
such  as  to  allow  no  outside  suspicion  that  such  as  they  could 
be  distressed  for  want  of  fuel.  Alas  !  they  belonged  to  that 
class  whose  position  has  to  be  kept  on  comparatively  small 
incomes,  and  whose  incomes  have  so  fixed  a  limit  that  their 
money  power  can  never  rise  equally  with  the  rise  of  prices 
for  food  and  fuel.  The  silent  sufferings  of  this  class  have 
deepened  all  through  the  period  in  which  coal  masters, 
miners,  and  merchants,  have  seemingly  combined  to  press 
fortunes  for  themselves  out  of  the  crushed  flesh  and  spirits 
of  their  struggling  and  helpless  neighbours. 

While,  however,  the  man  and  his  wife  were  looking  at 
one  another,  both  feeling  strongly  tempted  to  indulge  hard 
thoughts  about  everything  and  everybody,  a  happy-looking 
child  ran  into  the  room,  crying,  "  Hark !  how  my  sparrows 
are  singing  for  their  dinner  !  Can't  I  have  some  crumbs  for 
my  sparrows — my  dear  sparrows  ?  They  belong  to  Jesus  j 
and  He  sends  them  to  our  window  for  crumbs,  and  lets  me 
feed  them  for  Him,  and  call  them  mine,  too  !  Shan't  I 
have  some  crumbs  for  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,  darling  ! "  was  the  response  from  father  and  mother 
in  one  breath.  They  had  been  touched.  The  gathering 
hardness  had  melted,  and  there  were  answering  glances  from 
moist  eyes. 


4-0  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

"  We  belong  to  Him,  to  whom  the  sparrows  belong,"  said 
the  wife.  "  Yes  j  nor  will  He  leave  us  without  our  crumbs, 
any  more  than  he  leaves  them." 

"  No,"  said  the  softened  man;  "and  He  will  forgive  me 
for  my  moment's  feeling  of  doubt.  He  is  able  to  supply  our 
need  :  let  us  trust  Him.  As  the  dear  child  spoke,  I  thought 
of  what  a  quaint  old  writer  says,  '  It  costs  the  Lord  more  to 
keep  his  sparrows  than  it  takes  to  keep  up  all  the  govern- 
ments of  Europe.  And  He  has  always  enough  still  in  store 
for  His  people.'  " 

"And  I  thought,"  said  the  wife,  w  of  Mr.  Gough's  merry, 
chirping  song,  '  My  Sparrows.'  I  shall  teach  our  dear  child 
to  repeat  it.  It  will  help  to  save  us  from  sorrowful  doubt  in 
moments  of  darkness.  Come  here,  my  darling  ;  I  am  going 
to  tell  you  a  pretty  song  about  your  sparrows  ;  and  when  you 
have  learnt  it,  you  shall  sing  it  to  your  sparrows,  and  to  us 
sometimes.     Now  listen  : — 

"  I  am  very  fond  of  sparrows, 

And  they  are  fond  of  me  ; 
For  ever  bright  and  cheery, 

And  pert  and  full  of  glee. 
Sparrows  never  seem  in  trouble, 

Though  all  is  dark  around, 
They  chirp  in  storm  and  sunshine, 

And  when  snow  is  on  the  ground. 

When  trees  are  bare  in  winter, 

And  bitter  cold  benumbs, 
They  gather  round  my  window, 

And  ask  me  for  some  crumbs  ; 
And  then,  just  before  the  sunset, 

In  the  ancient  holly  tree, 
They  hold  a  choral  service, 

As  happy  as  may  be. 

For  countless  generations, 

The  sparrow  has  been  known  ; 
They  built  around  God's  temple, 

And  near  to  David's  throne ; 
And  the  Blessed  One  has  spoken 

Of  sparrows  kindly  words, 
How  our  heavenly  Father  careth 

For  these  joyous  litt.e  birds. 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  447 

They  have  taken  full  possession 

Of  my  roof  and  eaves  all  round, 
And  build  and  hatch  their  young  ones 

In  the  freehold  they  have  found. 
I  never  shoot  my  sparrows, 

Or  otherwise  molest ; 
And  woe  be  to  the  youngsters 

Who  dare  to  take  their  nest  ! 

But  when  the  cherries  ripen, 

I'm  obliged  to  use  my  gun ; 
But  I  only  fire  with  powder, 

And  they  cry,  '  It's  all  in  fun.' 
So  they  help  themselves  to  cherries, 

Until  their  crops  are  fill'd, 
And  put  that  down  as  payment 

For  caterpillars  killed. 

They  chirp  at  early  daylight, 

And  cheer  the  morning's  dawn, 
And  chatter  in  the  ivy, 

And  hop  upon  the  lawn ; 
And  in  damp  and  foggy  weather, 

When  I'm  apt  to  mope  and  sigh, 
As  merry  as  young  crickets, 

1  Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! '  they  cry. 

Mr.  Sparrow  sports  a  black  cravat, 

And  seems  a  trifle  proud  ; 
But  he's  faithful  to  his  lady  love, 

And  too  gallant  to  be  cow'd  ; 
And  he  scolds  and  struts,  and  sharps  his  bill 

Upon  the  old  oak  bough, 
As  if  he  said,  '  If  you  want  to  fight, 

I'll  accommodate  you  now  !  ' 

So  I'm  very  fond  of  sparrows, 

About  my  homestead  door, 
Waiting  till  the  cloth  is  shaken, 

And  begging  still  for  more. 
They  cannot  sing  like  thrushes, 

But  in  buoyant  spirits  rife, 
They  are  always  brisk  and  cheerful, 

And  they  stay  with  you  for  life." 

"How  strange  it  is/'  said  an  eminent  minister  to  his 
friend,  as  they  wandered  in  the  suburbs  of  a  smoky  city,  if 
haply  they  might  recognise  some  little  vestiges  of  pure  nature ; 
"  how  strange  it  is  that  you,  with  your  passion  for  rocks,  and 
flowers,    and  moors,   and   weird  old  castles,  and  the  like, 


448  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

should  be  called  to  spend  your  life  in  cities  and  great  towns  ! 
And  how  strange  twenty  million  other  things  are  that  we  see 
and  know  of!  Indeed,  what  is  not  strange  ?  All  is  strange 
— stranger  and  stranger  I  feel  it  to  be,  as  years  march 
onward.  Thank  God  for  the  good  hope  of  the  final  unveil- 
ing !  " 

"Thank  God!"  was  the  response ;  "but  you  remind 
me  of  that  admirable  woman,  John  Wesley's  mother  j 
she  expresses  a  feeling  something  like  yours,  when  speak- 
ing of  her  gifted  and  learned  husband  :  '  Did  I  not  know,' 
she  says,  'that  Almighty  wisdom  hath  views  and  ends 
in  fixing  the  bounds  of  our  habitation,  which  are  out  of 
our  ken,  I  should  think  it  a  thousand  pities  that  a  man  of 
his  brightness  and  rare  endowments  of  learning  and  useful 
knowledge,  in  relation  to  the  Church  of  God,  should  be 
confined  to  an  obscure  corner  of  the  country,  where  his 
talents  are  buried,  and  he  determined  to  a  way  of  life  for 
which  he  is  not  so  well  qualified  as  I  could  wish.'  So  every 
one  of  us  has  strange  things  to  test  our  faith.  How  little 
we  see  of  our  surroundings,  and  how  much  less  we  know 
about  the  interests  and  relations  of  our  own  inner  world. 
And  as  to  control,  how  much  have  we  over  the  little  things 
which  sometimes  give  turns  of  great  consequence  to  our 
course  ?  We  look  on,  as  the  transactions  of  our  life  pass, 
just  as  spectators  look  from  their  places  upon  the  movements 
on  the  stage  5  how  little  they  know  of  the  preparations 
and  machinery  behind  the  scenes !  How  little  they  know 
of  the  thought,  the  knowledge,  the  wisdom,  the  power, 
the  skill,  the  insight,  the  foresight,  and  the  secret  coun- 
sels invisibly  engaged  in  pre-arranging  and  setting  the 
life  of  the  stage  in  action,  adapting  each  actor  to  his 
place,  and  preparing  each  actor's  part,  and,  by  combina- 
tion of  agencies,  securing  as  a  result  the  honour  of  the 
managing  mind,  and  the  best  effects  upon  the  senses, 
thoughts,  feelings,  and  character  of  those  who  look  on  from 
outside  !  " 

"  Then  you  think  that — 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  449 

"  All  the  world's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players : 
They  have'their  exits,  and  their  entrances  ; 
And  one  man  in  his  time  plays  many  parts." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  to  the  world  ;  I  was  not  so  broad 
in  my  allusion.  Though  I  believe  the  Psalmist  had  a  notion 
something  like  the  one  in  your  quotation,  when  he  said, 
■  Surely  every  man  walketh  in  a  vain  show  ;  verily  they  are 
disquieted  in  vain.'  Does  he  not  mean  that  men  are  some- 
thing like  actors  ?  They  walk  in  shadow,  in  a  representation, 
a  kind  of  living,  moving  picture.  They  hum,  and  strut,  and 
go  through  their  postures  ;  but  how  vainly  !  with  how  little 
truth  in  themselves !  with  how  little  knowledge  of  things  as 
they  truly  are  concerning  themselves  !  And  with  how  little 
insight  into  the  realities  of  the  future  !  I  believe,  however, 
that  God  is  nearer  to  every  man  than  any  man  thinks.  As 
to  the  individual,  as  well  as  the  multitude,  there  is  One  who, 
though  unseen  and  unthought  of  by  the  creatures  of  His 
hand,  '  had  marked  out  and  previously  appointed  their  times, 
and  the  limits  of  their  dwelling,  that  they  might  seek  the 
Lord,  if  haply  they  might  feel  after  Him  and  find  Him.' 
God's  modes  of  arranging  human  affairs,  and  of  keeping 
men  in  action  on  the  stage  of  life,  can  be  seen  only  behind 
the  scenes.  He  puts  men,  I  think,  where  they  may  best 
secure  the  true  ends  of  life.  And  even  when  in  their  wilful- 
ness they  venture  to  choose  places  and  circumstances  for 
themselves,  He  still  keeps  up  His  invisible  interferences  so 
as  to  render  final  salvation  possible  for  them,  though  by  their 
unholy  usurpation  of  self-government  they  have  wrecked  all 
their  mortal  interests.  God  never  places  men  in  circum- 
stances which  render  it  necessary  for  them  to  ruin  them- 
selves ;  for  He  '  cannot  be  tempted  of  evil,  neither  tempteth 
He  any  man.'  But  I  am  leading  you  and  myself  into  more 
of  the  strange  things  about  which  you  spoke.  I  merely 
wished  to  express  my  firm  belief  in  the  ceaseless  superinten- 
dence of  Divine  wisdom  and  goodness  over  the  minutest 
things  in  the  life  of  those  who  love  and  trust.     I  think  that 

G  G 


45°  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

the  doctrine  of  Providence  in  the  case  of  the  Christian 
comes  very  near  to  the  doctrine  of  fate.  To  the  loving  child 
of  God, 

"  All  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt 

What  the  unsearchable  dispose 

Of  highest  wisdom  brings  about, 

And  ever  best  found  in  the  close. 

"  For  my  part,  He  has  taught  me  that  it  must  be  mine  to 
secure  the  calm,  abiding  conviction  that  my  will  puts  nothing 
in  the  way  of  Providence ;  and  then  to  fill  the  place  and  time 
He  chooses  for  me,  so  as  to  enjoy  a  good  conscience, — '  a 
conscience  bearing  witness  in  the  Holy  Ghost,' — that  I  please 
Him.     How  often  I  find  myself  inwardly  humming, — 

"  A  faithful  witness  of  Thy  grace, 
Well  may  I  fill  the  allotted  space, 

And  answer  all  Thy  great  design  ; 
Walk  in  the  works  by  Thee  prepar'd  ; 
And  find  annex'd  the  vast  reward, 

The  crown  of  righteousness  divine." 

"Then  it  is  on  this  principle,"  it  was  remarked,  in  reply, 
u  that  you  are  reconciled  to  a  life  in  large  towns  and  cities, 
apparently  in  such  ill-keeping  with  your  taste." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  And  am  I  not  right  ?  It  has  struck 
me  that  one  evidence  of  life  in  such  scenes  being  best,  in  my 
case,  for  awhile,  is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  my  taste  for 
nature  has  been  kept  fresh  throughout,  and,  indeed,  becomes 
fresher  as  I  approach  the  time  when  life  in  cities  will  no 
longer  be  my  calling.  I  sometimes  think  that  God  will  set 
me  free  for  a  little  while  among  the  scenes  with  which  I 
have  such  loving  sympathy,  that  I  may  plume  my  wings  a 
moment  before  my  flight  to  paradise.  One  benefit  I  shall 
have  gained  by  living  in  the  smoky  '  wilderness  of  the 
people'  is,  that  my  opportunities  of  insight  into  the  artificial, 
the  unsound,  and  the  false,  will  prepare  me,  as  nothing  else 
can,  for  the  pure  enjoyment  of  natural  reality,  and  simple, 
free,  and  healthy  life.  If  you  think  that  life  in  cities  seems  a 
hard  lot  for  one  like  me,  I  can  conceive  of  others  as  having  a 
much  harder  lot  than  mine.     Suppose  that  I  should  have  my 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  45 1 

city  discipline  through  the  earlier  days  of  vigour,  and  God 
were  to  release  me,  and  let  me  finish  among  the  woods  and 
fields,  mine  would  then  be  the  calm  joys  of  the  soldier,  who, 
having  had  his  last  campaign,  settles  in  his  native  valley,  in 
the  enjoyment  of  his  honours  and  his  pension.  But  I  can 
think  of  a  man  with  tastes  like  mine,  born  in  the  country, 
shut  up  to  business  through  middle  life,  in  the  worst  part  of 
a  city,  retiring  with  the  fruit  of  his  labour  into  the  scenes  of 
his  heart's  choice,  to  finish  his  course  amidst  the  pleasures 
of  undisturbed  devotion  to  nature,  books,  and  religious 
contemplation.  His  rest  seems  certain,  and  his  joy  full.  He 
has  enough  to  make  him  easy,  and  to  free  him  from  care. 
He  may  take  up  the  song  which  our  friend  Gough  teaches 
such  a  man  to  sing,  '  At  the  Door  '  : — 

"  Wearied  with  the  long-  pilgrimage  of  life, 

Wayworn,  and  full  of  scars, 
Won  in  victorious  strife, 

In  Christ's  triumphant  wars; 
By  age  enfeebled,  now  I  sigh  for  rest, 

And  with  my  hand  upon  the  palace  door 
I  wait  in  patience,  longing  to  be  bless'd 

With  peace  for  evermore 


I  have  no  fear — the  summons  soon  will  come, 
And  at  Christ's  palace  door  I  feel  at  heme ; 
I  think  of  my  past  victories,  and  am  glad  ; 

I  count  my  scars  and  shout, 
To  know  that  in  God's  armour  clad, 

I  put  my  foes  to  rout. 

Here,  then,  within  sound  of  their  songs, 
Saint,  angel,  martyr,  cherubim, 
Who  dwell  with  Him, 
I  lay  me  down  and  wait, 
Singing  in  concert  with  the  countless  throngs 

Inside  the  gate ; 
Full  soon  the  messenger  will  come  ; 
Being  so  near,  I  will  not  stray  from  home, 
For  God  is  never  late. 

"  But  suddenly,  when  the  habits  of  the  retired  man  have 
thus  ceased  to  accord  with  the  severer  action  of  life,  by  a 
turn  in  the  circumstances  of  somebody  whose  fortunes  had 
become  linked  to  his,  he  loses  his  all  in  the  world,  can  no 


45^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

longer  stay  in  the  nest  which  he  had  built  for  his  old  age, 
and,  without  resources,  except  such  as  those  who  loved  him 
may  afford  for  his  bare  sustenance,  has  to  hide  himself 
amidst  the  shadows  of  a  town  population — would  not  such  a 
case  be  worse  than  mine  ?  " 

u  It  would  be  indeed  ! — a  case  to  be  classed  with  very 
strange  things  that  grow  stranger  and  stranger.  Well,  we 
must  hope  that  every  one  upon  whom  such  distress  may  fall 
will  act  on  your  principle  of  peaceful  submission,  and  be  able 
to  use  my  words  :  '  Thank  God  for  the  good  hope  of  the 
final  unveiling  ! '  " 

Alas,  for  the  changeableness  of  human  things  !  This  last 
sketch  of  a  hard  lot  might  have  been  a  forecasting  vision  of 
our  Kentish  lyric's  case.  Nor,  when  the  reality  of  such  a 
sorrow  first  threw  its  shadow  over  us,  could  we  help  think- 
ing that  the  songster  must  have  been  deeply  touched  by  a 
kind  of  presentient  feeling,  and  moved  to  provide  a  song  for 
himself,  "  In  the  Time  of  Sorrow  "  : — 

In  the  time  of  sorrow, 

Jesus,  comfort  me; 
Bring  the  bright  to-morrow, 

Bid  the  shadows  flee. 
O'er  the  night  of  weeping, 

Let  Thy  mercy  dawn, 
And  the  watch-night  keeping, 

Usher  in  the  morn. 

When  in  sore  affliction, 

Gloomy  thoughts  increase  ; 
Breathe  the  benediction 

Of  Thy  loving  peace. 
Meet  me  in  contrition, 

Till  I  bless  the  ill ; 
Give  me  sweet  submission 

To  Thy  perfect  will. 

Near  me  in  temptation, 

Conquering  Jesus,  stand. 
Work  Thy  full  salvation — 

Snatch  from  Satan's  hand  : 
Evermore  enduring 

Through  the  battle's  strife, 
Victory  secuiing, 

And  the  crown  of  life. 


A    KENTISH    LYRIC.  453 

Other  things  forgetting — 

Things  that  are  behind — 
Nought  of  earth  regretting, 

To  its  pleasures  blind; 
Towards  the  prize  still  pressing, 

Glory  in  my  view, 
Jesus,  give  Thy  blessing  ; 

Jesus,  help  me  through. 

When  beside  the  river, 

Lingering  half  in  fear, 
Jesus,  then  deliver, 

Jesus,  then  be  near. 
Let  me  pass  rejoicing, 

With  Thy  staff  and  rod, 
Hallelujahs  voicing 

To  my  Saviour  God. 

May   the  sweet  singer  "  in   sorrow,"  have  his   u  sorrow 
turned  into  joy,"  as  he  walks  home  with  Jesus  ! 


454 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST. 


Yes,  'tis  sweet  to  wake  the  strains 

Of  those  we  lov'd  in  former  years, 
Who  shar'd  our  pleasure,  sooth'd  our  pains, 

And  shed  a  lustre  o'er  our  tears. 
Whose  smiles  beguil'd  the  evil  hour, 

As  on  those  tones  we  fondly  hung, 
Which  woke  each  bud  of  hope  to  flower, 

And  charm'd  our  sorrows  into  song. 


N  the  west  side  of  the  communion-table  in  the 
Methodist  Chapel  of  Redruth,  an  ancient  town  in 
the  midst  of  the  Cornish  mining  district,  and  an 
old  honoured  centre  of  Methodist  life  and  action, 
there  is  an  ornamental  niche,  containing  a 
memorial  urn,  on  which  is  written  "In  memoriam,  Thos. 
Garland,"  with  the  simple  record  underneath,  "Ob 
1865.  ^Et  61."  This  is  to  the  memory  of  one,  the  intellec- 
tual gracefulness  of  whose  countenance,  the  music  of  whose 
voice,  and  whose  harmonies  of  thought  and  language  are 
lovingly  cherished  in  the  recollections  of  his  native  County- 
men,  and  would  be  thought  of  with  pleasure  by  all  who  once 
saw  and  heard  him  either  in  private  or  public. 

"  He  used  to  sit  there,"  said  one  who  knew  him,  pointing 
at  a  front  seat  in  the  gallery  of  the  chapel,  nearly  overlooking 
the  monumental  urn.  "  How  often  I  have  seen  him  there  ! 
I  used  to  watch  for  the  play  of  thought  upon  that  calm,  fixed 
face,  though  sometimes  that  play  was  so  delicate  as  scarcely 
to  be  caught.  It  would  come  and  go  as  the  thought  of  the 
preacher  found  a  response  in  his  soul,  or  as  it  merely  served 


THREE    POETIC    VOICisS    FROM    THE    WEST.  455 

to  suggest  a  course  of  thought  into  which  his  mind  might 
strike  out  in  a  style  of  its  own.  How  quiet  are  the  deeper 
workings  of  Divine  truth  in  some  minds !  So  quiet  as 
scarcely  to  give  a  sign  that  would  touch  the  eye  of  an  observer 
from  without.  So  quietly  did  truth  act  upon  the  thinking 
powers,  and  through  them  on  the  heart  of  the  one  whose 
facial  muscles  seemed  always  tranquil,  as  he  sat  in  that  seat 
and  listened  to  the  appeals  of  truth  from  the  pulpit.  On  one 
occasion  he  was  seen  to  lift  his  hand,  and  gently,  with  one 
finger,  take  away  a  tear  that  was  trembling  on  his  eyelid. 
The  deep,  full  feelings,  of  which  that  was  the  token,  found 
subdued  utterance  afterwards  to  the  ear  of  the  preacher,  as, 
by  invitation,  he  sat  in  private  chat  with  Thomas  Garland  in 
a  room  looking  out  on  the  still  majesty  of  the  western  hills, 
then  reposing  under  evening  shadows.  That  evening  chat  is 
still  thought  of  with  hallowed  pleasure.  There  were  unfold- 
ings  of  experience  which  for  ever  marked  the  hour  as  a  holy 
one.  It  was  a  blessed  period  in  the  spiritual  history  of  a 
soul  afterwards  so  beautiful  in  its  mode  of  consecrating  its 
powers  to  Him  who  had  filled  it  with  peace  so  gently,  and 
yet  so  certainly,  and  with  such  profound  effect.  The 
mariner  in  which  that  soul  expressed  the  Divine  love  which 
had  been  manifested  to  it  was  sweetly  in  keeping  with  the 
style  in  which  the  tender  affections  of  some  kindred  spirits 
mutually  make  themselves  known  j  the  style  of  utterance  so 
finely  pencilled  in  one  of  the  early  effusions  of  Mr.  Garland's 
poetic  feeling  and  taste  : — 

"  There's  a  language  that's  mute,  there's  a  silence  that  speaks, 
There  is  something  that  cannot  be  told ; 
There  are  words  that  can  only  be  read  on  the  cheek, 
And  thoughts  but  the  eyes  can  unfold. 

There's  a  look  so  expressive,  so  timid,  so  kind, 

So  conscious,  so  quick  to  impart; 
Though  dumb,  in  an  instant  it  speaks  out  the  mind, 

And  strikes  in  an  instant  the  heart. 

This  eloquent  silence — this  converse  of  soul — 

In  vain  we  attempt  to  suppress  ; 
More  prompt  it  appears  from  the  wish  to  control, 

More  apt  the  fond  truth  to  express. 


45<5  THE    POETS     OF    METHODISM. 

And,  oh  !  the  delights  in  the  features  that  shine, 

The  raptures  the  bosom  that  melt ; 
When  blest  with  each  other  this  converse  divine 

Is  mutually  spoken  and  felt." 

The  writer  of  these  lines  was  about  sixteen  when  he  thus 
proved  himself  capable  of  delicately  combining  music  of 
words  and  music  of  feeling.  He  was  born  and  brought  up 
on  a  spot  surrounded  by  scenes  that  might  aid  the  inspira- 
tions of  genius — scenes  amidst  which  the  soul  as  well  as  the 
body  seems  to  breathe  a  life-giving  atmosphere.  On  the  side 
of  one  of  the  somewhat  bare  hills  which  range  along  the 
north-west  coast  of  Cornwall,  and  whose  seaward  slopes  end 
in  the  grand  cliffs  and  wild  crags  that  ceaselessly  echo  to  the 
voice  of  the  Atlantic,  there  is  an  old  homestead  with  its 
orchards  and  lines  of  elm-trees  forming  a  green  patch  on  the 
bald  slope.  The  quiet  ivy-clad  dwelling  looks  down  through 
its  garden  foliage  on  a  weird  valley  with  its  discoloured 
stream  of  mineral  water  rushing  over  a  bed  of  pebbles  and 
metallic  sand,  the  sea-gull  or  the  passing  rook  giving 
occasional  responses  to  its  babbling  tones  as  it  passes  into  the 
waters  of  the  richly  wooded  dell  that  winds  its  way  down  to 
the  little  romantic  harbour  of  Portreath.  Beyond  that  weird 
valley,  old  Cambridge  allows  the  eye  to  wander  over  a  swell 
of  furzy  common,  and  still  beyond,  over  rounded  hills,  here 
and  there  abruptly  sinking  into  zig-zag  hollows ;  and  then,  to 
range  along  the  distant  line  of  undulating  heights  and  grand 
uplifted  old  earns  keeping  watch  and  ward  for  ages  over  the 
secret  depths  of  subterranean  wealth.  Amidst  these  hills 
and  hollows  the  intellect  of  our  golden-tongued  Cornishman 
first  learnt  to  put  its  thoughts  into  form  ;  here  his  pen  made 
its  earliest  trials  of  skill ;  and  here  his  heart  had  its  first 
lessons  of  joy  and  sorrow.  To  some  of  the  lad's  first 
experiences  of  repulse  from  editorial  powers,  as  well  as  to 
what  he  felt  of  the  threatening  influence  of  indulged  poetic 
passion  on  his  early  culture  of  spiritual  piety,  we  probably  owe 
some  lines  which  have  enough  of  poetry  in  them  to  warrant 
hope  on  the  part  of  a  youthful  genius  : — 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  457 

And  would'st  thou  wake  the  minstrel's  lyre, 

And  pour  its  swelling  notes  along  ? 
And  gather  from  each  trembling  wire 

The  moody  revelry  of  song  ? 
Beware  !  it  hath  a  fatal  power, 

That  round  it  like  a  serpent  clings, 
And  desolates  the  fairy  bower, 

Whose  blossoms  shade  its  warbling  strings. 

Its  sounds  are  first  all  pure  and  deep, 

And  whisper  love  and  breathe  of  heaven, 
But  reckless  if  its  chords  thou  sweep, 

Thy  dust  may  slumber  unforgiven  ! 
And  Pleasure's  sweet,  alluring  strain, 

And  Passion's  wild  voluptuous  tone, 
May  give  thee  that  undying  pain 

Which  is  not  felt  on  earth  alone. 

The  poet's  wreath  of  hues  divine 

Is  from  the  fairest  flowers  that  blow ; 
Would'st  thou  the  glittering  chaplet  twine, 

And  bind  it  round  thy  honoured  brow? 
Beware  !  its  colours  oft  deceive, 

And  when  their  beauty  most  adorns, 
The  blooming  flowers  may  fade  and  leave 

A  circlet  of  the  sharpest  thorns. 

It  has  become  the  native  custom  of  cold  and  severe  critics 
to  sneer  at  the  first  tender  effusions  of  young  poets — their 
languishing  homage  to  some  Delia  or  Sylvia,  their  melting 
sentiment,  their  fond  epithets,  their  soft  imagery,  their  plaintive 
appeals,  and  their  submissive  devotion  to  love  and  beauty ; 
and  as  such  critics,  like  leaders  of  fashion,  give  the  cue,  all 
who  affect  literary  taste,  like  the  crowd  Who  follow  the  given 
fashion,  take  up  the  critical  mode,  and  in  turn  have  their 
laugh  at  the  juvenile  essays  of  genius  to  express  the  first 
tender  yearnings  of  the  youthful  heart.  But  why  should  the 
natural  affections  of  our  nature  be  ridiculed  in  their  spring- 
time, in  their  earliest  unfolding,  and  in  their  first  essays  at 
expression  ?  It  is  human  to  love.  God  has  given  man 
affections,  in  the  pure  exercise  of  which  human  life  finds  a 
secret  joy.  The  young  heart  feels  after  something  to  love  ; 
and  the  language  of  the  awakened  feeling  is  no  other  than 
properly  belongs  to  it.  Love  will  never  be  laughed  out  of 
the  world  5  nor  will  young  genius,  when  first  touched  by  its 


45^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

warmth,  ever  be  persuaded  to  repress  its  native  outflowings  of 
tender  thought  and  feeling. 

*  If  our  young  Cornishman  had  never  made  his  first  effort 
to  give  out  his  first  kindlings  in  tuneful  measure,  he  might 
never  have  gathered  power  to  utter  those  more  mature  voices 
of  song  which  live  as  evidence  of  his  true  poetic  gifts,  as  well 
as  the  delicate  and  warm  tone  of  his  affections.  Whether 
his  young  heart  had  real  cause  for  plaintiveness  at  the 
loss  of  what  it  loved  and  would  have  clung  to,  or  whether 
the  tenderness  of  his  nature  went  forth  upon  the  mere 
conceptions  of  his  genius,  one  piece,  among  the  remains 
of  his  youthful  authorship,  is  finely  conceived.  The  lines 
are  beautiful,  passingly  beautiful — beautiful  in  form,  beau- 
tiful in  soul,  beautiful  in  language  5  so  much  ease,  such 
naturalness  of  voice,  and  all  the  words  falling  in  such 
graceful  harmony,  that  it  might  be  the  poet's  passion  itself 
living,  breathing,  and  speaking  "To  Isabelle"  : — ■ 


Yes,  years  have  darkly  stolen  by, 

Since  on  thy  neck  I  fondly  hung, 
And  drank  the  fragrance  of  thy  sigh, 

And  caught  the  music  of  thy  tongue  ; 
But  many  a  coming  year  must  roll 
Its  weight  of  grief  upon  my  soul, 
Ere  time  can  steal  away  from  me 
One  relic  memory  keeps  of  thee, 

My  gentle  Isabelle ! 


I've  mingled  with  the  festive  throng, 

And  drain'd  the  sparkling  wine-cup  dry, 
While  the  ripe  thrilling  voice  of  song 
In  echoing  volumes  rose  on  high  ; 
A  voice  was  stealing  on  the  lee — 
A  voice  unheard  by  all  but  me — 
Upon  the  faintest  note  it  hung — 
Amidst  the  loudest  peal  it  rung — 

The  voice  of  Isabelle. 


I've  been  where  beauty  charm'd  the  soul 
With  her  full  starry  eyes  revealing  ; 

And  love's  divinest  languor  stole 
Upon  the  latest  chords  of  feeling  ; 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  4^9 

Even  then  I  saw  another  stand, 
And  beckon  me  with  bloodless  hand ; 
And  other  eyes  were  en  me  then — 
When  will  those  eyes  be  bright  again  ? 

My  long- lost  Isabelle  1 

'Tis  vain  that  thou  should'st  thus  recall 
The  passion  naught  but  death  can  sever  ; 

Would  we  had  never  loved  at  all, 
Or,  having  loved,  had  loved  for  ever! 

But  vain  the  wish  ;  within  the  tomb 

Thy  beauty  has  forgot  its  bloom  ; 

Thy  faithful  heart  has  long  been  cold, 

Within  the  earth-worm's  slimy  fold, 
Ill-fated  Isabelle ! 

Then  cease  to  haunt  my  tortur'd  breast, 
With  pangs  which  time  can  ne'er  remove  j 

Or  in  the  grave  I  fain  would  rest 
With  thee  whom  only  yet  I  love. 

This  is  for  every  wound  a  balm — 

The  fiercest  storms  must  end  in  calm, 

And  woes,  however  quick  they  come, 

But  sooner  speed  me  to  the  tomb, 

With  thee,  my  Isabelle. 

"  Long  years  had  passed,"  said  an  old  Cornishman,  "  since 
I  had  seen  the  face  and  heard  the  voice  of  Thomas  Garland — 
that  face  which  had  so  often  charmed  me,  that  voice  that  so 
many  times  had  held  me  in  alternations  of  merriment  and 
silent  pleasure.  Bat  coming  within  the  reach  of  him  once 
more,  I  flung  myself  into  an  open  carriage,  and  told  the 
coachman  to  drive  me  to  Fairfield.  Fairfield !  what  rich 
memories  gather  around  that  woodland  retreat !  Fairfield  ! 
It  tells  me  of  table-chat,  rich  in  humour,  wit,  comical  sketches 
of  life  and  manners,  passing  criticisms,  and  portraitures  of 
human  character  ;  it  tells  me  of  mental  freedom  amidst  the 
treasures  of  an  elegant  library ;  of  readings  from  Wordsworth, 
De  Quincy,  and  Lamb,  which  made  one  proud  of  his  own 
language,  and  happy  under  the  voice  of  one  who  knew  how 
to  give  musical  utterance  to  that  language,  and  could  make 
its  power  felt.  That  dining-room,  opening  at  the  end  into  a 
conservatory,  in  which  a  robin  sat  among  the  flowers  and 
sang  to  us  while  we  dined ;  and  looking  out  in  front  on  a 


460  THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

beautiful  lawn  surrounded  by  shrubs  and  wood,  and  peopled 
by  happy  creatures,  who  moved  amidst  the  sunlight  and  shade 
as  if  they  felt  they  were  in  their  own  paradise j  and  then 
the  old  familiar  faces  at  that  quiet,  hospitable  board  5  all  live 
before  me  now. 

"  My  poetic  host  was  then  in  his  prime,  and  as  a  reader  of 
poetry,  in  my  opinion,  the  best  I  ever  heard  ;  to  my  taste,  far 
more  enjoyable  than  any  professional  I  ever  listened  to. 
There  was  a  voice  of  melody ;  tones  rich,  clear,  and  distinct. 
The  very  genius  of  the  author  himself  seemed  to  be  present, 
breathing  his  own  inspiration  into  one's  soul,  until  one's 
whole  nature  was  thrilling  under  the  fascinating  charm.  The 
man  who  read  was  one  who  had  poetic  '  music  in  himself,' 
and  could  therefore  do  justice  to  the  poets  whom  he  had 
learnt  to  enjoy  so  as  now  to  keep  his  own  poetic  gifts  in 
hushed  silence.  Nevertheless,  one  could  but  remember  on  that 
bright  spring  day,  amidst  the  natural  beauties  and  intellectual 
charms  of  Fairfield,  how  the  now  maturely  cultured  soul  of  its 
owner  once  sang  a  youthful  song  of  his  own  on  the  opening 
'  Spring  ' : — 

"  'Tis  spring — I  know  by  the  soften'd  breeze, 

And  the  freshening  balm  'tis  bringing  ; 
By  the  buds  that  are  opening  among  the  green  trees, 

And  the  birds  on  their  branches  singing. 
By  the  flowers  around  me  thickly  blooming, 

And  the  silver  voices  through  heaven  that  ring, 
And  the  sun  drawing  nearer  to  herald  her  coming, 

'Tis  the  glad  approach  of  Spring. 

She  has  breath'd  on  the  woods,  and  their  blossoming  boughs 

Are  to  life  and  beauty  waking, 
She  has  loosed  the  floods,  and  the  tingling  rill  flows, 

From  its  fetters  gaily  breaking. 
The  violet  and  hedge-rose  are  silently  quaffing 

Her  richest  showers  of  clustering  dew, 
And  through  the  flying  clouds  she  is  laughing 

With  eyes  of  sunny  blue. 

The  hare  o'er  the  brushwood  nimbly  flies, 

The  stag  through  the  copse  is  glancing, 
The  lark's  sweet  melody  swells  in  the  t-kics, 

And  light  on  her  plumage  is  dancing  ; 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  46 1 

The  eyes  on  earth  and  the  stars  in  heaven 

Are  shining  out  more  vividly  bright, 
And  the  season's  warm  glow  to  the  day  is  given, 

And  her  placid  smile  to  the  night. 

The  earth  has  felt  in  its  sylvan  recesses, 

Her  gladdening  influence  breathing, 
And  the  moonlight  groves  are  with  sparkling  tresses 

Her  rosy  coronal  wreathing  ; 
And  ocean  from  every  shore  he  laves 

Has  caught  up  the  circling  story, 
Borrow'd  her  brilliance,  and  lit  by  his  waves, 

In  a  living  tide  of  glory  1 

But  there  is  a  spot  where  flowers  are  springing, 

Where  never  I  wish  to  s»e  them  spring; 
And  there  is  a  spot  where  birds  are  singing, 

Where  music  should  never  its  wild  notes  fling  : 
'Tis  over  the  graves  of  those  who  last  year 

Were  in  health  and  beauty  blooming, 
But  faded  away  like  visions  of  air, 

And  are  in  the  dark  tomb  consuming. 

The  flowers  that  wave  midst  the  stillness  of  death, 

Lend  but  a  deeper  gloom  to  sorrow  ! 
Nor  will  melody  charm  the  poor  sleepers  beneath, 

Till  they  wake  to  a  glorious  morrow : 
In  a  land  where  the  hours  will  eternally  bring 

Pleasures  which  no  rude  winter  can  sever — 
There  is  no  renewal  of  summer  or  spring, 

For  they  '11  last  for  ever  and  ever !  " 

Cornwall  has  long  been  remarkable  for  her  religious 
revivals,  wide-spread,  and  sometimes  attended  by  circum- 
stances pregnant  with  spiritual  lessons,  and  strikingly  signifi- 
cant of  the  Holy  Spirit's  most  gracious  modes  of  dealing  with 
human  masses.  And  whatever  may  be  said  by  laughers,  or 
philosophers,  or  doubtful  Christians,  these  revivals  always 
brighten  under  the  test,  when  judged  on  the  sacred  principle, 
"  By  their  fruits  ye  shall  know  them."  However  mysterious 
such  successive  visitations  may  appear  to  some,  their  results 
are  found  in  the  high  moral  tone,  and  the  deep,  religious 
sentiments,  tastes,  and  habits  of  the  people.  The  best  and 
largest  number  of  Methodist  folk  have  been  revival  converts  j 
and  that  many  of  the  leading  minds  and  largest  hearts  of  the 
county — men  who  have  left  their  marks  upon  the  world — 


462  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

have  been  among  the  permanent  blessings  following  such 
stirring  excitements,  is  enough  to  show  that  the  movements 
are  Divine.  The  poetic  spirit,  whose  name  is  still  so  balmy; 
the  elegant  mind,  that  so  charmed  his  generation;  the 
fascinating  speaker,  and  the  persuasive  and  cultured  writer, 
who  maintained  so  pure  and  agreeable  an  influence  over  all 
who  knew  him,  owed  that  religious  life,  which  hallowed  his 
gifts,  to  the  grace  of  a  Cornish  revival.  It  was  during  the 
extraordinary  religious  excitement  which  moved  all  classes 
through  the  entire  west  of  the  county,  in  the  year  18 14,  that 
Thomas  Garland,  then  a  lad  about  ten  years  old,  realized  that 
spiritual  change  which  the  blessed  Lord  has  called  a  new 
birth.  Like  many  others,  however,  he  afterwards  felt  him- 
self swayed  amidst  the  conflicts  to  which  he  was  called,  as 
his  physical  nature  was  developed,  and  as  his  intellect  and 
heart  opened  amidst  the  allurements  of  the  outer  world. 
The  distraction  incident  to  warmly-pressed  intellectual 
pursuits,  and  the  consequent  fluctuation  of  the  will  and  the 
affections  amidst  the  clash  of  opinion,  and  the  unfolding 
claims  of  public  life,  are  finely  indicated  in  a  poem  on  his 
twenty-second  birthday  :  a  piece  in  which  the  young  poetic 
genius  and  the  youthful  Christian  show  themselves,  by  turns, 
living,  breathing,  asserting  their  claims,  and  giving  out  their 
voices  in  harmony,  amidst  the  contending  influences  of  earth 
and  heaven  ; — 

Let  others  hail  their  day  of  birth 

With  festal  glee,  and  dance,  and  song ; 
And  dedicate  its  hours  to  mirth  ; 

To  me  far  other  thoughts  belong. 
To  me  it  tells  of  pleasures  gone, 

Of  hopes  that  only  bloom'd  to  die  ; 
And  one  more  year  swept  wave-like  on 

To  thy  dark  shores,  Eternity. 

It  asks  if  o'er  my  youthful  brow 

No  self-accusing  thoughts  can  rise  ; 
If  I  have  sojourn'd  here  below, 

As  one  whose  home  is  in  the  skies ! 
If  I  to  Heaven  can  lift  mine  eye, 

And  smile  at  death's  unconscious  sleep  ? 
My  quiv'ring  lips  yield  no  reply, 

I  only  bow  my  head  and  weep. 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  463 

Lord,  I  have  wander'd  far  from  Thee ; 

And  though  Thy  Word  sublimely  show'd, 
Like  Israel's  pillar'd  flame,  my  way, 

In  paths  of  dark  delusion  trod  ; 
Have  strayed,  while  Truth's  eternal  beams 

Around  me  shone  divinely  clear, 
And  thirsted  while  the  gushing  streams 

Of  living  waters  murmur'd  near. 

But  now,  if  like  the  bird  that  o'er 

The  billowy  waste  of  waters  sped, 
Nor  saw  to  its  wild  waste  a  shore, 

Nor  found,  where'er  she  vainly  fled, 
One  bright,  green  resting^  spot  of  earth, 

Back  to  the  ark  again  I  wing  : 
Oh  !  wilt  Thou  not  thy  hand  stretch  forth, 

And  take  the  weary  wanderer  in  ? 

Thou  wilt — Thou  wilt — even  now  I  feel, 

While  bending  at  Thy  pitying  throne, 
That  half  the  darkness  of  the  veil 

Which  hid  my  soul  from  Thee,  is  flown. 
And  from  Thy  presence  shadowing  forth, 

A  glimpse  of  love  divine  is  given, 
Eclipsing  every  charm  of  earth 

With  light  that  only  springs  from  heaven. 

Oh  !  breathe  Thy  voice  into  my  heart, 

And  let  it  ever  whisper  there ; 
That  when  from  Thee  my  steps  depart, 

Its  deep,  low  tone  I  still  may  hear 
In  all  my  wanderings,  like  the  shell 

That,  torn  from  Ocean's  coral  caves, 
Retains,  wherever  it  may  dwell, 

The  music  of  the  murmuring  waves. 

The  traveller  on  the  mountain's  height, 

Walks  on  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
While  lightnings  flash  beneath  his  feet, 

And  in  the  vale  harsh  thunders  die. 
Such  is  the  Christian's  path  ;  below 

He  sees  the  world's  wild  tempests  driven, 
But  heeds  them  not ;  and  smiles  to  know 

They  cannot  harm,  so  near  to  Heaven  ! 

There  are  some  minds  of  poetic  power  and  taste  which 
never  find  expression  in  measured  verse  of  their  own  from 
the  time  when  they  give  themselves  to  the  full  joy  of  com- 
panionship with  poets  of  supreme  claims.  Thomas  Garland 
was  one  of  these ;  not  that  he  ever  ceased  to  be  a  poet  in 


464  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

spirit,  feeling,  taste,  and  language,  but  he  ceased  to  utter 
himself  in  rhyme.  Even  as  a  journalist  and  a  reviewer  he 
made  it  evident,  every  now  and  then,  that  it  was  possible  for 
prose  pages  to  be  instinct  with  essential  poetic  life.  It  was, 
however,  chiefly  as  a  public  speaker,  preacher,  and  lecturer 
that  this  "golden-tongued  Cornishman,"  as  he  got  to  be 
called,  became  the  poet  in  prose  form.  His  tuneful  genius 
was  most  happy  when  exercised  on  religious  and  benevolent 
themes.  The  wiping  away  of  that  tear  from  his  eye  in  the 
chapel  at  Redruth,  near  the  parish  in  which  he  found  his  last 
retreat,  Fairfield,  marked  a  period  of  restored  consolation  in 
Christ,  and  of  entire  sacrifice  of  his  genius  and  talents  to  the 
"  truth  as  it  is  in  Jesus." 

"  One  of  his  earliest  attempts  as  a  public  speaker  on  behalf 
of  Christian  missions,"  says  a  friend,  "  at  first  startled,  and 
then  hushed,  me  into  pleasurable  wonderment.  It  was  a 
genuine  poet  putting  his  soul  into  persuasive  speech  for 
Christ's  sake.  This  was  in  a  small  village  chapel  among 
the  mines,  where  the  crowded  congregation  showed  how 
keenly  they  relished  truth  when  introduced  in  its  native 
attractions,  in  language  of  transparent  beauty  and  powerful 
simplicity.  The  gathering  and  fixing  of  his  hearers'  atten- 
tion on  the  heavenly  Dove  brooding  on  the  waters  of  chaos, 
and  the  consequent  unfolding  of  newly-created  life,  beauty, 
and  order,  can  never  be  forgotten  ;  nor  have  I  ever  lost  the 
thrilling  charm  of  a  sudden  transition  to  the  immortal  love- 
liness of  the  new  creation  as  the  result  of  the  same  holy 
Dove's  peaceful  motion  on  the  dark  deep  moral  chaos  of  this 
fallen  world.  It  was  prose,  pure  and  energetic;  and  yet  it 
was  poetry,  genuine  and  rich.  Never,  it  seemed  to  me,  was 
there  prose  so  poetic  and  yet  so  manly  ;  so  full  of  musical 
thought  and  feeling,  and  yet  so  powerful  and  chaste — '  the 
happy  mixture  of  the  serious  and  the  playful,  the  pathetic 
and  the  harmonious,  the  keen  argument  and  the  powerful 
declamation,  all  given  in  language  which  seemed  to  have 
reached  its  utmost  finish,  would  hold  the  audience  in  breath- 
less attention.'     It  was,  indeed,  the  speech  of  a  poet  veiling 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  46^ 

his  poetry  in  unexceptionable  prose.  One  might  be  re- 
minded of  a  passage  in  his  lecture  on  Robert  Hall,  as  illus- 
trative of  his  own  style.  'To  one  striking  quality  of  Mr. 
Hall's  style/  says  he,  '  I  must  make  a  pointed  advertence. 
I  refer  to  its  musical  structure.  Great  writers  are  as  much 
composers  as  great  musicians.  They  test  the  sound  of  words 
by  a  sense  as  exquisite  as  that  which  tries  notes  of  music. 
They  combine  words,  as  the  musician  blends  his  notes,  into 
sprightly  or  solemn  movements — into  triumphal  swells  or 
dying  falls.  This  art  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  genius — 
untaught  and  incommunicable ;  and  this  Hall  possessed  in 
perfection.  His  sermons  are  magnificent  lyrics  :  each  sepa- 
rate paragraph  is  a  melody,  and  the  periods  are  like  bars  in 
a  strain  of  music.  I  don't  know  that  he  ever  wrote  a  line 
of  poetry,  nor  am  I  aware  whether  he  had  what  is  called  an 
ear  for  music ;  but  the  divine  spirit  of  poetry  colours  his 
prose,  and  beyond  all  rules  of  musical  art — 

11 '  His  thoughts,  involuntary,  move 
Harmonious  numbers.' " 

All  this  would  remind  one  of  Thomas  Garland's  own  best 
public  utterances.  He  was  not  the  divine  that  Hall  was,  but 
his  sermons  and  his  lectures  were  sometimes  lyrics,  every 
paragraph  of  which  "was  a  melody." 

How  often  he  showed  himself  the  poet  when  expressing 
his  happy  appreciation  of  poets.  Those  who  ever  heard  him 
talk  of  Charles  Wesley  and  the  Methodist  Hymn-Book,  and 
who  to  any  fair  extent  caught  the  spirit  which  breathed  in 
his  tuneful  sentences,  will  remember  how  his  claims  as  a 
poetic  Cornish  Methodist  were  placed  beyond  a  discordant 
doubt  as  they  heard  him  say,  "  The  strains  which  are  familiar 
to  every  household — the  songs  with  which  the  mother  lulls 
her  infant  to  slumber  on  her  bosom — the  melodies  which 
cheer  the  traveller  on  his  lonely  path,  or  the  ploughman  while 
he  turns  his  furrows,  or  the  miner  in  his  subterranean  solitude ; 
the  words  in  which  a  mourning  spirit  utters  its  sorrows,  or  a 
happy  soul  pours  forth  its  overflow  of  blessedness, — these  are 

H   H 


4-66  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

in  reality  the  creeds  and  articles  of  a  community.  And  so, 
while  Charles  Wesley  was  composing  the  strains  which  were 
to  animate  our  devotional  feelings,  he  was  at  the  same  time 
fixing  our  doctrinal  standards.  What  solitary  truth,  precious 
to  the  Christian  believer,  is  not  vividly  displayed  in  these 
hymns  ?  Whatever  changes  may  mark  the  future  history  of 
Methodism,  we  need  not  apprehend  any  doctrinal  declension. 
As  long  as  the  hymn-book  keeps  its  place  in  our  public 
worship,  our  households,  and  closets,  so  long  will  the  purity 
of  our  faith  be  guarded  by  the  double  defence  of  the  under- 
standing and  the  affections.  At  this  moment,  how  many 
children  are  prattling  these  hymns  at  their  parent's  knees ; 
how  many  prayerful  spirits  are  giving  utterance  to  them  in 
their  closet  silence ;  what  griefs  are  being  lightened,  and  joys 
increased  by  the  singing  of  these  sacred  melodies  !  I  remem- 
ber an  instance,  and  my  hearers  can  refer  to  others,  in  which 
a  happy  soul  while  singing  a  verse  from  one  of  our  hymns 
passed  away  to  the  other  world.  The  song  which  began  on 
earth  ended  in  heaven  ;  the  notes  of  the  Church  militant 
blended  with  those  of  the  Church  triumphant.  Death  itself 
was  but  a  bar  in  the  music  between  the  strains  of  oft-repeated 
praise  and  the  Song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb." 

The  poetic  soul  who  thus  kept  in  sympathy  with  the  poets 
of  Methodism,  seemed  to  have  some  sorrowful  associations 
of  thought  with  the  quiet  leafy  grave-yard  of  his  native  parish, 
when  he  sang — 

But  there  is  a  spot  where  flowers  are  springing, 

Where  never  I  wish  to  see  them  spring ; 
And  there  is  a  spot  where  birds  are  singing, 

Where  music  should  never  its  wild  notes  fling. 

That  spot,  however,  is  now  hallowed  as  the  resting-place 
ot  his  dust;  and  there,  ever  since  that  redeemed  dust  was 
deposited  in  hope,  the  "flowers"  have  been  "springing"' 
around  his  tomb,  and  the  "birds"  have  been  "singing" 
amidst  the  foliage  which  shelters  and  beautifies  what,  in  his 
earlv  davs  he  called  the — 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  467 

One  sweet  resting-place, 
Where  mourners  find  repose, 
And  sorrow's  children  cease  to  weep, 
Regardless  of  their  woes  ; 
Where  never  was  an  eye  impearl'd 

With  one  unbidden  tear, 
Or  strain  of  grief,  or  tale  of  woe 
Assail'd  the  listless  ear. 

On  the  day  before  his  comparatively  sudden  departure  from 
his  Fairfield  paradise  to  the  paradise  above,  he  was  returning 
from  Portreath  to  his  home.  A  friend  who  met  with  him  on 
the  way  "observed,  after  he  left  him,  that  on  ascending  the 
hill  he  turned  and  gazed  for  a  considerable  time  on  the  fine 
panorama  which  there  lay  outstretched  before  him — the  hills 
and  woods  and  waters,  and  the  calm,  unruffled  sea,  bathed  in 
the  sunshine  of  a  bright  summer  afternoon."  It  was  the  last 
look  of  his  bodily  eye  upon  that  mighty  sea.  What  were  his 
thoughts?  Were  they  in  tune  with  his  brother's  poetic 
musings  and  rhythmical  voice,  "To  the  Ocean"?  His 
brother  and  he  were  akin  in  poetic  genius  and  feeling.  Both 
had  the  spirit  of  song.  Of  each,  in  his  own  order,  it  could 
have  been  said,  he  "  hath  a  psalm,  hath  a  doctrine,  hath  a 
tongue."  And  often,  lingering  on  that  bold  hill-side,  over- 
looking the  great  deep,  have  thoughts  about  the  brothers 
arisen,  until  it  has  seemed  as  if  Thomas  were  standing  there, 
still  gazing  out  on  the  sun-lighted  waters;  and  as  if  the  voice 
of  Charles  Garland  were  rising  into  harmony  with  the 
murmurs  from  the  rocks,  while  he  sang — 

Hail !  mighty  Ocean,  rolling  on 

In  everlasting  pride  and  power ; 
From  clime  to  clime  thy  voice  hath  gone, 

From  shore  to  sounding  shore, 
A  type  of  that  which  cannot  die, 
A  symbol  of  eternity  !  ( 

Thy  voice  was  heard  when  earth  first  sprang 

From  the  primeval  chaos  forth  ; 
When  morning  stars  together  sang 

The  glories  of  her  birth, 
As  darkness  from  his  throne  was  hurl'd, 
And  sunlight  flash'd  upon  the  world. 


468  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

And  there  will  yet  thy  billows  roll, 
While  distant  ages  shall  decay, 

Till  the  high  heavens — a  shrivell'd  scroll — 
Consume  and  pass  away — 

Till  Time  shall  flag  his  weary  wing, 

And  perish — a  forgotten  thing  ! 

Time — that  hath  crumbled  to  the  ground 
The  towers  that  climb'd  the  far-off  sky, 

And  spread  stern  desolation  round 
Beneath  his  withering  eye — 

Hath  look'd  on  thee  in  still  despair, 

And  never  wreak'd  his  vengeance  there  ! 

While  mighty  changes  sweep  away 
The  fabrics  reared  by  mortal  hand — 

While  thrones  are  tottering  day  by  day, 
And  monarchs  throneless  stand — 

Unbow'd,  unsmote  by  earthly  will — 

Thou  art  the  rolling  ocean  still. 

Thou  wert  a  wonder  evermore, 
Thou  art  a  thing  of  wonder  still ; 

Scorning  the  might  of  human  lore, 
The  heights  of  human  skill ; 

With  one  sublimest  mystery  fraught, 

Deeper  than  all  the  depths  of  thought. 

How  wondrous,  then,  in  slumbering  peace, 
Still  as  an  infant  on  the  breast, 

When  smiles  of  blessed  tenderness 
Have  lull'd  it  into  rest ; 

With  scarce  a  murmur  or  a  sound 

Waking  from  thy  vast  regions  round ! 

How  wondrous  when,  in  stormy  night, 
Thy  waves  uprear  their  massy  walls  ; 

When  thunder  from  the  billow's  height 
To  distant  thunder  calls  ; 

And  o'er  thy  face  the  winged  blast 

Sweeps  with  first-born  fury  past ! 

Yet  even  he  of  earthly  clay, 

Whose  breast  the  voice  of  truth  inspired — 
Whose  heart  one  emanating  ray 

Of  heavenly  light  hath  fired — 
May  hear  within  thy  rolling  flood 
Some  echo  of  the  voice  of  God. 

Whose  years  are  boundless,  like  thy  own — 
Whose  wisdom  seraphs  may  not  name — 

Whose  thunders  roll  around  His  throne, 
Built  by  the  lightning  flame — 

The  depths  of  whose  eternal  power 

Are  soundless  and  without  a  shore  1 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  469 

Thou  mighty  one  !  thou  goest  forth 

On  thy  unwearied  way  alone, 
A  journeyer  to  the  ends  of  earth, 

To  distant  lands  unknown  ! 
Ranging  the  wastes  by  man  untrod, 
And  search'd  but  by  the  eye  of  God ! 

Rich  treasures,  Ocean,  are  thine  own, 

Diamonds  of  countless  price  hast  thou, 
And  brighter  gems  than  ever  shone 

On  beauty's  wreathed  brow  ; 
And  studded  o'er  a  thousand  caves, 
Far  down  beneath  thy  sounding  waves  ! 

And  thou  hast  greater  still  than  these — 

Greater  than  even  wealth  untold — 
Thou  hast  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  cities  fam'd  of  old, 
On  whose  high  banner  once  unfurl'd 
In  silence  gazed  a  raptur'd  world. 

Where  Sodom  and  Gomorrah  stood, 

In  grandeur  looking  o'er  the  earth, 
The  billows  of  thy  restless  flood 

Are  ever  rolling  forth  ; 
Their  turrets  high  and  temples  proud 
Have  found  beneath  thy  waves  a  shroud  ! 

Yea,  greater  still — in  sleep  profound, 

The  warrior  lies  within  thy  womb ; 
The  mighty  ones  of  earth  have  found 

In  thee  an  unsought  tomb  ! 
And,  like  a  miser,  day  by  day 
Thou  guardest  all  thy  hidden  prey ! 

Retain  thy  gems  and  jewels  rare, 

To  blaze  within  thy  cavern  shrine ; 
But  earth's  lost  heroes,  slumbering  there, 

Ocean,  were  never  thine ! 
Give  back,  from  thine  unfathom'd  bed — 
Thou  shalt  not  keep  the  mighty  dead ! 

A  voice  shall  wake  them  from  their  sleep — 
From  thy  lone  depths  the  dead  shall  call; 

Heaven's  final  thunders  o'er  the  deep 
In  mighty  wrath  shall  fall ! 

Roll  on,  in  thy  unconquer'd  sway, 

Thou  art  the  creature  of  a  day. 

When  suns  shall  vanish  from  the  skies — 

When  stars  shall  sink  in  dim  decay — 
And  with  a  sound  of  mighty  voice, 

Heaven,  earth,  shall  pass  away  ; 
The  winds  that  sweep  thy  swelling  wave 
Shall  sing  the  dirge  o'er  Ocean's  gravel 


47°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

The  author  of  these  lines  had  entered  on  his  period  of 
poetic  rhyme  and  rhythm  just  as  his  brother  Thomas,  older 
by  nine  years,  was  passing  from  his  verse-making  era  to 
that  through  which  his  poetical  soul  expressed  itself  with  such 
fascinating  power  in  richly-finished  lectures,  and  speeches, 
and  sermons.  Charles  Garland,  too,  after  a  few  years  of 
successful  indulgence  in  songs  about  "  The  Stars,"  and 
"Wings  of  the  Dove,"  "Remorse,"  and  "The  Last 
Slumber,"  with  other  worthy  associates  of  his  hymn  "  To 
the  Ocean,"  gave  himself  to  his  own  style  of  prose ;  and, 
as  a  journalist,  lecturer,  and  preacher,  shows  himself,  as 
compared  with  his  departed  brother,  whose  memoirs  he  has 
written,  the  less  attractive  speaker,  the  less  popular  penman, 
the  severer  critic,  the  better-read  theologian,  and,  though 
without  the  charms  of  his  brother  as  a  preacher,  yet  the 
more  profound,  discriminating,  and  full.  Original  poetic 
genius  in  both  the  brothers  gave  richness  to  their  sacrifice 
of  all  gifts  to  Christ,  and  will  give  lasting  impressiveness  to 
their  lives.  The  memory  of  Thomas  is  like  a  bright  poem 
still,  and  Charles  will  leave  the  world  more  in  love  with 
the  pure  beauty  of  truth  than  he  found  it.  Uncertain 
mortality  !  The  last  sentence  had  scarcely  been  written, 
when  Charles  Garland,  too,  was  gone  ! 

In  the  course  of  a  chat  about  books  the  other  day  one  of 
the  group  said,  "  ]  picked  up  a  volume  of  poems  this 
morning,  some  verses  in  which  acted  like  an  instantaneous 
charm  as  my  eyes  fell  on  them,  opening  in  a  moment  some 
inner  chambers  of  imagery,  with  pictures  of  forms  and 
scenes  belonging  to  my  childhood,  which  had  been  shut 
up  for  years,  unthought  of,  as  if  they  never  had  been.  The 
reappearance  of  these  images  was  so  vivid  as  to  beget  a  notion 
that  there  may  be,  at  times,  some  mysterious  link  between 
a  poet's  visions  and  the  realities  of  life  in  some  former 
generation,  as  if  the  poet's  genius  were  a  spirit  of  divination 
having  access  into  the  picture-galleries  of  one's  early  me- 
mory. The  volume  of  poems  was  by  Charles  Lawrence 
Ford,   B.A.,    and    was   entitled  '  Lyra   Christi.'      The   first 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES     FROM    THE    WEST.  4/  f 

piece  which  caught  my  attention  touched  a  spring,  as  I 
said,  and  in  an  instant  up  came  my  old  grandfather's  fire- 
side, he  sitting  on  one  hand,  as  I  stood  by  his  knee,  and  on 
the  other  an  old  favourite  called  Lawrence,  a  travelled, 
talkative  neighbour,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  fill  up 
his  old  friend's  leisure  hours  with  racy  tales  of  his  early 
adventures  and  later  alternations  of  joy  and  sorrow.  His 
voice  seemed  to  fall  upon  my  ear  just  as  it  did  when  I 
listened  to  him  telling  my  grandfather  that  one  of  his  elect 
pleasures  in  the  course  of  his  peregrinations  was  to  watch 
the  play  of  children  of  an  evening  from  the  window  of  the 
inn  where,  for  the  time,  he  happened  to  be,  and  to  watch 
them  till  the  shades  began  to  deepen,  and  the  music  of 
their  young  voices,  as  the  little  groups  left  the  ground, 
melted  away  in  the  distance,  and  lulled  him  into  dreams 
of  his  own  childhood. 

<f  '  I  liked  it  all  the  more,'  he  said,  '  because  it  always 
seemed  to  me  such  a  token  of  our  country's  happiness  and 
welfare.  For  yon  know,'  he  added,  giving  his  friend  a 
knowing  look  from  his  one  twinkling  eye,  'you  know  our 
heavenly  Father  mentions  it  as  a  token  of  " peace  and  plenty." 
What  a  pretty  picture  he  teaches  the  prophet  Zechariah  to 
draw  of  a  happy  city :  "  There  shall  yet  old  men  and  old 
women  dwell  in  the  streets  of  Jerusalem,  and  every  man 
with  his  staff  in  his  hand  for  very  age ;  and  the  streets  of 
the  city  shall  be  full  of  boys  and  girls  playing  in  the  streets 
thereof."  And  I  like  it  still  the  more,'  said  old  one-eyed 
Lawrence,  '  because  our  blessed  Lord  himself  used  to  notice 
it,  and  liked  it  so,  that  He  drew  lessons  from  it  for  the  proud 
and  hard-hearted  Pharisees.  How  kindly  He  must  have 
looked  at  the  "children  playing  in  the  market-place ;"  and 
their  little  toy-pipes,  and  even  their  mimic  sorrows,  were 
dear  to  Him.  Oh,  what  a  difference  He  could  see  between 
their  bright  young  spirits  and  the  dark,  disguised,  selfish 
minds  of  the  great  doctors  ! ' 

"  I  learnt  to  love  that  old  traveller,  because  he  loved  children ; 
and  his  talk  led  me  to  love  Him.  too,   whose  interest   in 


47^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

children  and  whose  knowledge  of  them  led  Him  to  prefer 
their  company  and  to  place  little  ones  before  His  disciples  as 
examples  of  true  greatness.  The  verses  which  so  suddenly 
called  these  early  impressions  into  new  life  are  founded  on 
ZechariaYs  words,  as  quoted  by  the  old  pleasant  talker. 
(Zech.  viii.  4,  5).     Here  they  are  : — 

"  My  children,  pleasant  are  your  voices, 
As  the  song  of  merry  birds  in  May  ! 
Earth  amidst  her  sorrows  yet  rejoices, 

Hearing-  the  glad  echoes  of  your  play, 
Breaking  through  the  melancholy  noises 
Wrung  from  her  sad  bosom  all  the  day. 

Joyous  is  your  life,  that  knows  no  morrow — 

Knows  no  dark  regrettings  for  the  past ; 
We,  along  the  sober  path  of  sorrow, 

Walk  with  looks  before  and  after  cast; 
Ye  from  beast  and  bird  some  wisdom  borrow, 

Plucking  flowers  of  pleasure  while  they  last. 

Earnest  is  your  way  in  its  pursuing, 

Not  with  the  half-heartedness  of  men 
Now  some  truth  or  pleasure  feebly  wooing, 

Turning  from  the  hollow  purpose  then  ; 
Weary  with  this  doing  and  undoing, 

Almost  would  I  be  a  child  again. 

Fearless  is  your  speech,  untaught  to  measure 

Fashion's  cold  proprieties  and  rules ; 
Love  and  hate,  and  bitterness  and  pleasure, 

Brook  in  you  no  lessons  of  the  schools ; 
We  who  weave  disguises  of  our  leisure, 

Half,  perchance,  are  wise,  and  half  are  fools. 

Frozen  are  our  hearts  with  self-repressing, 

Hiding  from  our  brother  all  we  can ; 
Yours,  at  will  rebuking  or  caressing, 

As  an  open  volume  all  may  scan ; 
Ours  may  be  the  gain,  but  yours  the  blessing, 

Bearing  more  the  pattern  of  the  man. 

Said  He  not,  the  meek,  the  loving-hearted, 

In  whose  gentle  spirit  was  no  guile, 
He  whose  life  its  sun-like  radiance  darted, 

Flooding  all  the  nations  with  its  smile, 
That  the  children's  mind  must  be  imparted 

Unto  all  would  reach  the  Happy  Isle  ? 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  473 

Teach  us,  then — for  we  have  need  of  teachers  — 

Teach  us  your  simplicity  to  win  ; 
Preach  to  us,  most  golden-mouth'd  of  preachers, 

From  the  temple  that  ye  stand  within; 
Sing  us  songs,  most  blessed  of  God's  creatures, 

While  we  hear,  but  cannot  enter  in. 

Show  us  that  of  all  the  visions  golden, 

Woven  of  that  paradise  above, 
That  of  all  its  treasures  new  and  olden, 

Angels  show  the  ransom'd  as  they  rove, 
Naught  so  sweetly  perfect  is  beholden 

As  its  childlike  confidence  and  love. 

Then,  to  guileless  merriment  returning, 
Charm  us  from  our  sorrows  by  your  glee, 

While  our  forms  conventional  unlearning, 
Life  untrammell'd  in  your  sports  we  see, 

In  your  wilfulness  of  joy  discerning 

God's  great  will  that  all  should  happy  be. 

Shaking  in  the  breeze  your  golden  tresses, 

Singing  to  the  music  of  the  sky, 
Plunging  in  the  thickest  green  recesses, 

Laughing  at  the  echo  of  your  cry — 
Every  word  and  every  motion  blesses, 

Unawares,  the  loving  One  on  high. 

Laugh,  and  leap,  and  shout !  the  hours  are  flying  ! 

Fill  your  lap  with  roses  while  ye  may, 
Reckless  of  the  years  before  you  lying, 

Seeing  not  the  ending  of  your  day  ; 
Soon  enough  will  come  the  time  of  sighing — 

Who  shall  dare  to  check  you  from  your  play  ? 

Oh  !  my  children,  ye  have  left  your  places ; 

Silence  falls  with  darkness  on  the  strand  ; 
But  the  laughing  light  upon  your  faces 

Haunts  me  still,  as  if,  with  influence  bland, 
Angels  had  been  here,  and  left  their  traces 

Of  the  ever  young  and  happy  land." 

"  Some  of  these  verses,"  it  was  remarked,  "  show  with 
beautiful  delicacy  and  instructive  clearness  the  border  lines 
between  the  simple  thoroughness,  truthfulness,  and  purity 
of  happy  childlikeness,  and  the  double-faced,  double-minded, 
false-coloured  humbug  of  our  mature  culture,  as  we  call  it ; 
while  they  indicate  the  secret  of  that  real  greatness  which  is 
so  lovely  and  dear  to  the  heart  of  Him  who  said,  *  Who- 


474  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

soever,  therefore,  shall  humble  himself  as  this  little  child, 
the  same  is  greatest  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  " 

u  Yes,"  said  the  first  speaker,  "and  Mr.  Ford  has  given 
me,  over  and  above,  an  insight  into  another  secret.  He  has 
sweetly  explained  to  me  somewhat  of  the  reason  why,  in 
childhood,  I  always  seemed  to  be  better  and  happier  when 
alone  among  the  rocks  and  sands  on  the  sea-shore  than  in 
some  other  scenes.  I  see  now  that  the  lessons  which  were 
instilled  into  my  young  soul  about  the  scenes  of  our  Saviour's 
favourite  resorts  had  associated  the  sands  with  His  foot- 
prints, and  the  sea  with  the  divine  music  of  His  voice,  as 
well  as  the  deep  movements  of  His  power.  My  early  love 
of  the  sea  was  hallowed  by  sympathy  with  Him  whose 
gentle  presence  it  so  often  felt.  One  of  the  poet's  pieces 
seemed  to  lead  me  back  to  my  favourite  resort  when  a  child. 
It  was  a  green  flat  on  the  margin  of  a  solitary  little  lake  by 
the  sea,  a  plot  where  every  step  pressed  out  the  grateful 
perfume  of  the  chamomile-flowers  which  bespangled  it. 
There,  sometimes  of  an  evening,  I  used  to  be,  when  the 
sky  was  clear  and  the  moon  was  full,  and  nothing  broke 
the  stillness  but  the  leap  of  a  fish  now  and  then  from  the 
placid  water,  or  the  whistle  of  the  sandpiper,  or  the  murmur 
of  waves  which  the  light  breeze  at  times  brought  up  from 
the  neighbouring  beach.  Happy  hours  !  I  seemed  to  have 
them  over  again  when  I  read  Mr.  Ford's  lines  on  '  Christ 
by  the  Sea,'  founded  on  the  significant  though  simple  state- 
ment, '  And  He  went  forth  again  by  the  sea-side' : — 

"  Thy  ways  were  in  the  haunts  of  men — 
The  city's  lanes,  the  rustic  glen, 

The  desert  wild,  the  mountain  sod  ; 
But  most  the  murmur  of  the  sea 
Thy  footsteps  drew — meet  path  for  Thee, 
O  Son  of  God  I 

Perchance  a  brief  repose  was  found 
In  that  interminable  sound, 

Hushing  all  voices  save  its  own  ; 
Even  as  in  some  o'ercrowded  street 
We  plunge,  and  find  its  noise  most  sweet, 
Then  most  alone. 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  4/5 

Perchance  it  was  Thy  music,  played 
By  hands  unseen  that  o'er  it  strayed, — 

God's  harp  of  multitudinous  roll ; 
To  mortal  ears  the  waves'  low  moan, 
To  Thine  some  heavenly  undertone, 
To  soothe  Thy  soul. 

For  Thou  wast  weary  with  the  sighs 
Of  sorrowing  earth  ;  men's  harsh  replies 

Struck,  sword-like,  through  Thy  finer  sense ; 
And  weary  evermore  to  spend 
On  hearts  that  could  not  comprehend 
Thy  love  intense. 

The  wide,  unfathomable  deep, 
Unchanging  type  that  mortals  keep 

Of  what  outfits  the  bounds  of  time — 
Nearest  to  infinite — might  well 
Suit  with  Thy  thought,  who  couldst  not  dwell 
Out  of  that  clime. 

And  haply,  at  the  day's  soft  close, 

When  sought  Thine  own  their  calm  repose, 

This  path,  alone,  Thy  footsteps  trod, 
All  night,  from  mortal  hindrance  free, 
Thy  soul  outpouring  by  the  sea 
In  prayer  to  God. 

The  day's  hot  glare  beheld  Thee  far, 
Healing  all  pains;  but  eve's  cool  star 
Still  drew  Thee  to  Thy  lov'd  retreat ; 
The  waters  knew  Thee — every  wave 
Waited  Thy  coming,  proud  to  lave 
His  Sovereign's  feet. 

And  if  that  small  blue  oval  field 
Might  scarce  (thou  think'st)  occasion  yield 
To  thoughts  more  meet  for  ocean's  roll, 
Still  was  that  watery  strength  confined, 
Emblem  of  Him  whose  form  enshrined 
An  infinite  soul. 

'  There  shall  be  no  more  sea' — thus  sings 
Heaven's  final  seer — vague  sound,  that  brings 

A  harmless,  half-regretful  sigh. 
I  would  not,  in  the  earth  new-dressed, 
That  aught  His  sacred  feet  have  press'd 
Should  wholly  die." 

The  genius  who  gave  out  these  utterances  cannot  strictly 
be  called  a  Comishman — he  was  born  in  Bath  j  but  he  has 


4/6  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

become  naturalized  as  a  resident  in  the  old  Cornish  town  of 
Camborne,  where  he  has  proved  himself  to  be  a  cultured 
and  efficient  tutor  of  some  of  the  bettermost  boys  of  the 
county,  and  where  his  pupils  have  learnt  to  love  him  as  the 
object  of  their  parents'  high  esteem.  His  voice  is  now  a  voice 
from  the  West,  and  it  is  a  poetic  voice  worthy  of  Methodism  ; 
the  doubtful  voice  of  a  Methodist  Quarterly  Reviewer  not- 
withstanding. He  has  been  said  to  be,  not  a  poet,  but  rather 
a  verse-maker.  He  who  said  so,  however,  can  never  have 
read  all  his  verses,  or,  having  read  them,  must  have  read 
them  in  forgetfulness  of  what  betokens  a  poet.  Who  but 
a  poet  could  have  given  such  soul-music  "to  children  play- 
ing," or  have  called  up  such  spiritual  harmonies  around  the 
footsteps  of  "Christ  by  the  Sea"?  Who  but  a  poet  could 
so  delicately  disclose  the  great  secret  of  his  being  loved  by 
boys  as  their  tutor  as  he  has  done  in  his  lines  "  To  a  Wild 
Rose,"  founded  on  Job's  words,  "As  I  was  in  the  days  of 
my  youth  ....  my  glory  was  fresh  in  me"  (Job  xxix. 
4—20)  :— 

Sweet,  simple  blossom  of  the  brake, 
I  pluck  thee  for  my  childhood's  sake ; 
For  in  thy  slender  leaves  I  know 
A  message  from  the  long-ago. 
To  me  thy  opening  buds  are  singing 

Of  a  diviner  time  gone  by  ; 
I  hear  the  happy  voices  ringing; 

I  see  the  never-clouded  sky ; 
I  breathe  the  invigorating  air 
Of  life  inviolate  from  care. 

The  natural  smile,  the  thought  half -heard, 
The  unpremeditated  word, 
The  fancy  wild  all  rein  that  spurned, 
The  eye  that  always  outward  turned, 
The  simple  taste,  the  spirit  free, 
The  fellowship  with  bird  and  bee, 
Come  back,  consociate  with  thee  I 
Oh,  rich  munificence  of  time  ! 

Oh,  freshness  of  the  morning  breeze  ! 
My  light  step  trod  some  other  clime 

With  larger  faculties  than  these; — 
An  eye  that,  by  some  mystic  law, 
Beheld  what  since  I  never  saw, 


THREE    POETIC    VOICES    FROM    THE    WEST.  4/7 

An  ear  that  heard,  distinct  and  near, 

Sounds  such  as  now  I  cannot  hear; 

A  mind  at  ease  ;  a  heart  that  gave 

To  leaf,  and  cloud,  and  star,  and  wave, 

A  portion  of  itself,  to  gain 

A  joy  without  reserve  or  stain  : 

So,  gentle  blossom  of  the  brake, 

I  pluck  thee  for  my  childhood's  sake. 

Nor  can  the  beautiful  concentrations  of  thought,  the  quiet 
play  of  imagination,  and  the  happily-turned  allusions  of  some 
of  his  verses  "  On  the  Meekness  and  Gentleness  of  Christ" 
fail  to  secure  for  him  the  honour  of  being  classed  with  truly 
poetic  versifiers.  None  that  can  feel  the  touch  of  a  poet's 
voice  fails  to  hear  such  a  voice  when  he  reads  verses  like 
these  about  the  gentle  Jesus  : — 

The  folded  napkin  'mid  the  earthquake's  roar, 
The  blessing  as  he  vanish'd  at  the  board, 

The  curl  of  smoke  that  rose  upon  the  shore 
When  that  disciple  said,  "  It  is  the  Lord  "  ; 

The  kindness,  condescending  once  to  share 
All  human  needs,  but  once  by  angels  fed ; 

That  stooped,  unchanged,  our  common  form  to  wear, 
And  ate  and  drank,  though  risen  from  the  dead ; 

The  easy  calmness  of  His  latest  hour, 

With  noiseless  footstep  treading  up  the  stair 

Unto  His  higher  room  ; — all  these  have  power 
To  turn  our  meanest  acts  to  praise  and  prayer. 


478 


THE     POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


SOME    OF  THE   LATEST  SONS   OF  SONG. 

In  varied  streams  benignant  Nature  leads 
Her  fostering  waters  o'er  rejoicing  meads  : 

So  God  ordains,  to  bless  His  church  below, 
His  Spirit's  gifts  in  varied  streams  should  flow. 


s&* 


~     /^%  VENERABLE  friend,  who  owed  his  spiritual  life, 


fiW 


under  God,  to  Methodism,  devoted  his  lively  talents 
^^  to  Christ,  consecrating  to  Him  his  powers  of  music 
c/isy  and  his  gift  of  sweetly  flowing  and  persuasive 
jf  speech.  He  excelled  as  a  public  speaker.  Among 
his  favourite  themes  were  the  missionary  character,  aud  the 
wide,  various,  and  accumulative  influences  of  Methodism. 
One  specimen  of  his  aptness  in  illustration  was  this  :  "  I 
have  been  told,"  said  he,  "  that  it  used  to  be  the  custom 
among  whalers  in  the  North  Seas,  to  have  each  ship's  name 
engraven  on  all  its  harpoons  ;  so  that  if  one  ship  first  struck 
a  whale  and  it  escaped  with  the  harpoon  in  it,  on  its  being 
struck  by  another  ship  and  captured,  it  would  be  acknow- 
ledged as  the  property  of  the  ship  whose  first  harpoon  was 
found  in  it ;  according  to  the  rule  that  a  captured  whale 
belonged  to  those  by  whom  it  was  first  harpooned.  And 
now,''  said  the  speaker,  "  I  have  no  doubt  that  in  '  the  time 
of  the  restitution  of  all  things,'  when  all  who  have  been  cap- 
tured for  Christ  are  gathered  together,  there  will  be  many 
Christians  brought  up  by  other  Churches,  who  will  be  found 
to  have  the  Methodist  harpoon  in  them.  For  all  that  was 
happy  in  the  circumstances  of  their  birth  and  early  training  ; 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  4;0, 

for  all  their  first  good  turns  of  thought,  their  first  heavenward 
bent  of  affection,  the  first  discipline  of  their  will  ;  and  for  all 
that  was  best  in  the  process  of  their  preparation  for  responsible 
life,  many,  very  many  a  man  will  be  found  indebted  to 
Methodism,  though  at  his  latter  end  he  had  not  borne  the 
name  of  Methodist.  Influenced  by  unforeseen  surroundings 
in  their  later  course,  such  Christians  have  become  associated 
with  other  communities,  by  whom  they  have  been  held  for  a 
time,  until,  presented  at  last,  they  are  manifest  in  their  true 
relation  to  those  by  whose  instrumentality  they  received  their 
first  impressions  of  truth  and  grace." 

If  the  zealous  old  Methodist  speaker  had  looked  about  for 
an  exemplar  case,  he  might  have  thought  himself  happv, 
perhaps,  in  lighting  upon  one  among  the  deacons  of  a 
Baptist  Church  in  Hackney ;  one  who  had  distinguished 
himself  as  a  journalist,  whose  public  pen  had  been,  for  some 
years,  stirringly  employed  about  the  ecclesiastical  affairs  of 
Methodism,  who  had  written  a  "  Life  of  Dr.  Adam  Clarke,"" 
and  a  spiritual  volume  of  "  Familiar  Colloquies  between  a 
Father  and  His  Children."  This  is  John  Middleton  Hare, 
the  son  of  a  Methodist  preacher  of  a  past  generation.  Who 
that  has  looked  at  the  crowded  group  of  Methodist  preachers 
represented  in  the  old  Methodist  Book-Room  engravino-  as 
sitting  at  a  Conference  in  City  Road  Chapel,  listening  to  John 
Wesley,  who  occupies  the  pulpit,  has  not  been  struck  with 
one  fine  intellectual-looking  face  and  head  among  those  who 
are  seated  in  the  foreground  under  the  pulpit  ?  It  is  one  of 
those  oval  countenances,  with  a  lofty  and  expanded  brow,  so 
often  seen  among  Englishmen  of  high  type.  That  is  the 
portrait  of  Edward  Hare,  whose  name  is  revered  to  all  who 
are  thankful  for  Methodist  preachers  like  him — men  whose 
preaching  has  been  rich  and  weighty,  and  whose  pens  have 
equalled  their  voice  in  power.  John  Middleton  Hare  is  this 
preacher's  third  son,  born  at  Stockport,  June  5,  1804.  The 
foundation  of  his  learning  was  laid  in  the  Methodist  School 
at  Woodhouse  Grove,  near  Leeds.  He  was  one  of  the  first 
race  of  scholars  there,  and  was  in  school  companionship  with 


48o 


THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 


some  who  have  become  known  as  venerable  or  leading  Me- 
thodist preachers,  and  some  who  have  been  distinguished 
in  other  spheres,  such  as  the  late  Attorney-General  Sir  William 
Atherton. 

As  a  literary  man,  Mr.  Hare  began  his  course  in  associa- 
tion with  the  learned  printer,  James  Nichols  j  and  from 
contributions  in  prose  and  verse  to  Methodist  periodicals,  he 
passed  to  "  Leaders"  in  popular  journals;  until,  having  done 
the  heavier  work  of  life  in  influencing  public  opinion  by  his 
pen,  he  sought  a  retreat  at  Forest  Hill,  in  which  he  might 
solace  his  last  days  with  psalmody  and  sacred  verse.  In 
giving  himself  to  song,  "  My  first  object,"  he  says,  "  has  been 
to  assist  myself  in  the  acquisition  of  habits  of  composure  after  a 
somewhat  busy,  and  sometimes  turbulent,  career  j  and  my 
second,  if  without  rebuke  I  may  confess  so  much  ambition,  to 
write,  if  possible,  a  hymn  or  two  which  may  at  some  future 
time  find  their  way  into  the  hymn-books  of  the  Christian 
Church."  This  is  an  amiable  and  devout  ambition.  Nor  are 
there  wanting  among  his  numerous  verses  hymns  of  sufficient 
merit  to  give  good  hope  that  the  object  of  his  ambition  will 
be  realised.  He  has  attempted  a  lyrical  rendering  of  "  The 
Song  of  Songs,"  a  long  poem  on  the  "  Character  and  Exploits 
of  David/'  and  rhythmical  versions  of  several  psalms. 
Whether  these  are  as  likely  to  live  as  some  of  the  "  Early 
Christian  Songs  "  which  he  has  given  in  a  versified  form,  may 
not  be  at  present  clear.  But  one  at  least  of  these  hymns  will 
show  that  he  has  not  failed  to  reach  his  own  ideal :  rt  It  has 
been  my  endeavour,"  he  tells  us,  "to  render  the  original 
words — or  rather,  the  received  version  of  those  words — with 
as  much  closeness  as  possible.  .  .  .  Charles  Wesley's 
versification  of  the  Te  Deum  is  so  far  from  being  a  mere 
rhymed  rendering  of  the  piece  as  it  stands  in  the  Prayer-book 
as  to  extend  to  fourteen  six-lined  octo-syllabic  stanzas.  .  .  . 
Be  pleased  to  bear  in  mind  that  I  invite  no  comparison,  in 
poetical  success,  between  my  piece  and  that  of  Charles 
Wesley,  or  of  any  other  writer  j  but  only  wish  it  to  be  noted, 
in  what  degree  I  have  succeeded  in  preserving  the  words  as 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  481 

well  as  the  sentiment,  while  putting  them,  or  trying  to  put 

them,  into  smooth  and  vigorous  verse."      Charles  Wesley's 

hymn — 

Infinite  God,  to  Thee  we  raise 

Our  hearts  in  solemn  songs  of  praise — 

is,  indeed,  a  grand  musical  paraphrase  of  the  Te  Deum  ;  bat 
Mr.  Hare  has  succeeded  in  a  high  degree  in  his  close  version, 
given  in  verse  as  "smooth  and  vigorous"  as  so  close  a 
rendering  admits.     His  hymn  has  life  in  it — 

Thee,  God,  we  praise ;  Thou  art  the  Lord, 
Whom  all  the  earth,  with  full  accord, 

Eternal  Father  owns. 
Loud  raise  to  Thee  the  angel  throng, 
Cherub  and  seraph,  pauseless  song, 

Low  bending  from  their  thrones. 

"  Holy  " — and  all,  with  veiling  wing, 
Their  faces  cover  as  they  sing — 

"  Thrice-holy  Lord,"  they  cry  : 
11  Creation  waits  Thy  sovereign  will 
Both  heaven  and  earth  Thy  glories  fill 

With  speechless  majesty." 

Thee,  praise  the  glorious  company 
Who  travailed  with  their  Master ;  Thee, 

The  fellowship  of  seers ; 
Thee,  too,  the  martyrs'  noble  band, 
With  all  the  Church,  in  every  land, 

Through  the  long  lapse  of  years. 

Father,  to  Thee  we  humbly  bow : 
Of  majesty  unbounded  Thou, 

Eternally  the  same; 
Nor  less  Thy  true  and  only  Son, 
And  Him,  the  High  and  Holy  One, 

The  Comforter,  who  came. 

To  Thee,  for  Thou  art  glory's  King, 
Regal  acclaim,  O  Christ,  we  bring — 

God's  everlasting  Son ; 
Yet,  when  Thou  cam'st  to  rescue  man, 
Didst  stoop  to  all  Thy  Father's  plan, 

Nor  birth  of  woman  shun. 

Triumphant  o'er  the  powers  of  night, 
Thou  didst  unbar  the  gates  of  light, 

To  all  believers  free. 
At  God's  right  hand  Thy  lofty  seat, 
In  Thee  Jehovah's  glories  meet, 

And  perfectly  agree. 

I  I 


482  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

Thou,  we  believe,  our  doom  wilt  give; 
Help,  then,  Thy  servants  so  to  live, 

Bought  with  most  precious  blood, 
That  in  the  world  of  endless  bliss, 
Their  ransomed  souls,  released  from  this, 

Be  numbered  with  the  good. 

Thy  people  save,  O  Lord,  and  bless 
Thine  heritage  with  fruitfulness  ; 

Rule,  and  for  ever  raise, 
Who  day  by  day  adore  Thy  name, 
And  always  magnify  its  fame 

In  ceaseless  songs  of  praise. 

Vouchsafe,  O  Lord,  this  day  to  keep 
Our  thoughts  from  sin  ;  awake,  asleep, 

Thy  mercy  still  abound  ; 
As  is  our  trust,  that  mercy  be  ! 
Lord,  I  have  fixed  my  hope  in  Thee — 

Let  nought  that  hope  confound ! 

"  We  had  a  beautiful  sermon  yesterday,"  said  a  working 
man,  as  his  master  stood  at  his  side  looking  on,  in  one  of  the 
workshops  of  a  large  foundry. 

"  What  was  the  text,  John  ?  " 

"  Well  now,  I'm  a  poor  hand  at  chapter  and  verse — it  was 
a  long  text,  a  good  deal  about  charity." 

"That's  too  often  the  way  with  you  Methodists,  John. 
You  seem  to  be  satisfied  with  the  flashes  of  feeling  which 
may  pass  over  you  while  you  listen  to  the  preacher  •  or  with 
the  mere  general  impression  of  some  good  which  you  carry 
away  with  you  from  the  sermon ;  without  taking  any  devout 
pains  to  get  a  certain  knowledge  of  the  thoughts  that  touched 
you,  or  the  sacred  words,  doctrine,  or  argument,  on  which 
the  discourse  was  founded.  It  ought  not  to  be  so." 
"  What  can  I  do,  sir  ?  My  memory  is  so  weak." 
"  Do  ?  Why,  do  your  best  to  make  your  memory  stronger, 
especially  about  things  which  have  to  do  with  your  soul's 
health.  You  would  manage  to  recollect  any  bit  of  know- 
ledge or  skill  upon  which  your  weekly  wages  depended.  And 
if  the  Bible  is  the  word  of  Him  whom  you  say  you  love  with 
all  your  heart,  how  is  it  that  you  know  little  or  nothing 
about  the  prophecy,  or  the  psalm,  or  the  gospel,  or  the  epistle 


SOME   OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  483 

out  of  which  your  minister  brings  truth  to  your  soul  ?  You 
ought  to  know  God's  truth  better  than  you  know  your  trade. 
Your  trade  is  only  for  a  few  days'  bread,  but  God's  word  is 
for  eternal  life.  You  say  the  text  was  a  long  one,  and  a  good 
deal  about  charity?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  that." 

"  Well,  but  charity  is  that  without  the  experience  and 
practice  of  which  you  cannot  be  a  perfect  Christian,  or  get  to 
the  Christian's  heaven.  Now  that  chapter  which  the  preacher 
took  for  his  text  gives  you  the  rules  of  charity  or  love.  It 
was,  I  suppose,  the  thirteenth  chapter  of  the  First  Epistle  to 
the  Corinthians.  Did  it  not  begin  with  '  Though  I  speak 
with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels,'  &c,  and  finish  with 
1  The  greatest  of  these  is  charity  '  "  ? 

"Yes,  that  was  it." 

°  Can't  you  tell  me  what  the  chapter  says  about  charity? " 

"  No ;  I  can't  go  through  it  all." 

"But  ought  you  not  to  be  able?  Ought  you  not  to  be 
like  the  old  woman  who,  feeling  her  own  decay,  said  that 
she  forgot  everything  now  but  Jesus  ?  How  can  you  be  an 
example  of  that  charity  or  love  which  you  profess  is  the  joy 
of  your  heart  and  the  rule  of  your  life,  if  you  don't  know 
what  its  rules  are  ?  You  ought  to  take  pains  to  store  your 
memory  with  such  sacred  rules,  and  try  to  do  it  prayerfully." 

"  I  wish  I  could.  How  shall  I  manage  ?  It  seems  hard 
to  work  all  the  verses  into  my  memory." 

"  Can  you  recollect  verses  of  hymns  better  than  verses  of 
Scripture?" 

"Yes." 

"  Come,  then,  I  will  repeat  a  hymn  to  you  which  con- 
tains all  that  the  preacher's  long  text  says  about  charity, 
and  gives  it  all  very  clearly  and  pleasantly  in  rhyme.  Now 
listen  : — 

"  'Tis  the  heart  must  truly  speak  : 
Though  I  had  an  angel's  tongue, 
What  I  said,  if  love  were  weak, 
Would  be  like  a  bell  that's  rung. 


484 


THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM, 


What  were  all  that  Paulus  knew, 

What  Isaiah's  prophet  art? 
What  the  Exiled  Seer's  view, 

From  his  charity  apart  ? 

Though  my  faith  should  never  fail, 

And  I  could  the  hills  remove, 
Nothing  would  it  me  avail, 

Were  I  destitute  of  love. 

All  my  goods  the  poor  may  feed, 

In  the  fire  my  body  burn; 
Yet,  unless  I  love  indeed, 

This  shall  yield  me  no  return. 

Love  long  suffereth  and  is  kind ; 

Envies  not  another's  good ; 
Vaunts  not  with  a  puffed-up  mind ; 

Shuns  the  manners  of  the  rude. 

Never  seeketh  she  her  own  ; 

Never  into  passion  breaks ; 
Is  not  to  think  evil  prone, 

But  each  kind  allowance  makes. 

Not  in  error,  but  in  truth, 

Taketh  she  her  pure  delight ; 
Full  of  patientness  and  ruth, 

Hoping,  trusting  all  is  right. 

Charity  shall  never  fail, 

Though  the  prophet's  eye  grow  dim, 

Tongues  no  longer  aught  avail, 
Knowledge  vanish  like  a  dream. 

Now,  indeed,  in  part  we  know, 

And  in  part  we  prophesy : 
When  the  perfect  cometh,  lo ! 

Like  a  shadow  these  shall  fly. 

When  I  was  a  child,  I  spoke, 

Thought,  and  understood  as  one  ; 
When  a  man,  my  place  I  took, 

I  with  childish  things  had  done. 

Through  a  glass  we  darkly  see ; 

Soon  will  face  to  face  be  shown. 
Here  we  know  in  part ;  but  we 

There  shall  know  as  we  are  known. 

Now  abide  faith,  hope,  and  love, 

Sweet  and  sacred  virtues  three ; 
But  her  sisters  far  above 

Shines  divinest  Charity." 

"  They  are  pleasant  verses,  as  you  say,  sir.    I  think  I  could 
learn  them.     Whose  are  they  ?     Can  I  get  them  ? " 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  485 

"  They  were  written  by  a  Mr.  Hare,  the  son  of  a  Methodist 
preacher.  You  may  not  be  able  to  get  them  in  print,  but  I 
will  write  them  out  for  you ;  and  if  you  will  learn  verse  by 
verse,  and  then  go  to  the  apostle's  chapter  and  pray  over  it, 
I  think  these  verses  will  help  you  to  remember  all  the  words 
of  the  long  text;  and  let  me  remind  you  that,  when  St. 
Paul  prays,  '  And  the  very  God  of  peace  sanctify  you  wholly, 
and  your  whole  spirit,  and  soul,  and  body,  be  preserved 
blameless  unto  the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,'  he 
means,  among  other  things,  not  only  that  perfect  love  to 
God  will  enable  a  man  habitually  to  govern  his  body,  but 
that,  when  the  Christian's  '  spirit '  is  fully  given  to  Christ, 
his  •  soul,'  or  intellect,  will  be  properly  regulated  and  fully 
exercised.  Now,  as  memory  belongs  to  the  intellect  as  well 
as  the  thinking  power  and  the  imagination,  it  is  a  part  of 
holiness  to  train  that  memory  to  be  familiar  with  the  truth 
which  saves  us.  Otherwise,  no  man's  'soul'  can  be  'pre- 
served blameless  to  the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.'" 

If  it  could  be  thought  that,  as  the  character  of  vegetation 
in  some  way  answers  to  that  of  the  soil,  so,  on  some  spots, 
the  surface  productions  of  the  soil  may  symbolize  the  cha- 
racter of  that  human  life  which  occupies  it,  then  a  man 
might  think  that  he  had  lost  his  way,  if,  while  in  search  of 
refined  and  sanctified  genius,  he  found  himself  in  a  neigh- 
bourhood where  the  human  dwellings  were  flanked  by 
hedge-rows  fruitful  with  poison  of  the  "  deadly  nightshade." 
Should  he,  however,  find  the  genius  which  he  sought  on 
such  soil,  he  would  be  led,  perhaps,  to  wonder  at  God's 
modes  of  distributing  His  chosen  ones,  or  His  way  of  choosing 
their  inheritance  for  them.  His  conclusion  might  be  that, 
after  all,  no  part  of  the  peopled  world,  since  antediluvian 
times,  may  be  without  some  faithful  one  who,  like  Noah, 
is  found  "perfect  in  his  generation";  or  that,  as 

There's  not  a  heath,  however  rude, 

But  hath  some  little  flower 
To  brighten  up  its  solitude, 

And  scent  the  evening  hour ; 


486 


THE    POETS   OF   METHODISM. 


so  not  even  a  wilderness  with  borders  of  deadly  nightshade 
but  may  have  its  philosopher,  its  artist,  its  Christian  poet. 

It  was  in  a  suburb  of  North  London,  near  what  used  to 
be  called  "  Cut-throat  Lane,"  that  an  inquirer,  a  few  years 
ago,  found  the  one  whom  he  sought, — one  whose  face, 
bearing,  and  manner,  at  once  gave  fair  expression  to  the 
man's  pure  gentleness,  fine  taste,  calm  and  elegant  thought, 
deep  spiritual  feeling,  and  richly-toned  poetical  genius.  Never 
will  the  friendly  chat  in  that  studio  be  forgotten.  The  poet 
was  an  artist,  and  he  talked  critically,  devoutly,  and  gracefully, 
as,  by  turns,  he  went  back  from  his  easel  to  see  the  effect  of 
one  touch  and  came  up  again  to  give  another.  The  palette 
and  pencils  were  one  day  laid  down,  and  he  threw  open  a 
large  quarto  Bible  with  very  broad  margins,  and  displayed  to 
his  companion's  eye  a  series  of  marginal  pencil  sketches  that 
seemed  to  picture  the  very  life  of  the  prophetic  words  and 
actions  given  in  the  text.  "These,"  said  he,  "  are  the 
results  of  some  years'  efforts  at  realizing  the  thoughts, 
visions,  life-scenes,  and  ministry  of  inspired  and  historic 
men,  as  they  ministered  each  to  his  own  age  or  generation. 
My  attempts  to  make  myself  one  with  them,  and  their  times 
and  circumstances,  almost  unfitted  me  for  the  realities  and 
duties  of  my  own  life ;  but  I  am  thankful  for  that  com- 
parative ease  with  which,  as  the  result,  I  can  now  enter  into 
the  experience  of  one  who  says,  '  We  walk  by  faith,  not  by 
sight.'"  His  marginal  sketches  were  poems  in  picture ;  but 
his  poetical  genius  gave  some  of  them  a  musical  form  too; 
and  now  and  then  an  exquisite  little  poem  would  prove  how 
deeply  the  tuneful  soul  of  the  artist  had  gone  into  the  very 
soul  of  those  ancient  men  whose  forms  and  actions  he  had 
fixed  in  the  margin  of  his  Bible.  Among  these  rare  and 
finely-cut  gems  of  poesy  one  is  uncommon  in  its  theme  and 
of  very  distinctive  beauty.  It  is  founded  on  the  fortieth 
chapter  of  Jeremiah,  and  is  entitled  "  Gedaliah  in  Miz-« 
pah"  : — 

This  evening  I  walk  upon  the  walls 

Made  strong  with  stones  from  Ramah,  in  the  day 


SOME     OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  487 

When  Asa  fenced  them  and  Baasha  fled 

For  fear  of  Syria,  with  his  work  half  done, 

Baffled  by  politic  compacts  of  power. 

At  noontide  I  looked  down  into  the  well, 

Hollow  and  echoing-,  sunk  in  my  courtyard 

That  men  might  want  no  water  in  a  siege 

(For  Asa  thought  how  Rabbah — with  the  spring 

Clasped  in  its  citadel — for  two  long  years 

Kept  out  even  Joab);  and  there  seemed  to  rise 

From  its  dark  ring  a  mist  and  shade  of  death, 

Which  clung  about  my  thoughts,  and  raised  such  dreams 

As  seldom  cross  my  well-attempered  soul — 

Rising  unbidden,  as  the  gods  arose, 

Precursors  of  the  shape  of  Samuel, 

In  that  wild  cave  of  Endor — nay,  I  saw — 

Not  visibly,  but  in  my  hurtling  thought, 

This  Samuel,  who — near  six  hundred  years 

Back  from  the  present — made  his  circuit  here, 

Judging  in  Mizpah  when  there  was  no  king. 

Then  did  the  kingdom — which  the  folk  would  have 

Whether  or  no — spring  up.     It  here  has  end. 

Both  root  and  branch,  and  all  that  pleasant  vine, 

Brought  out  of  Egypt,  flourishing  so  long, 
And  bearing  such  sour  fruitage,  is  uptorn 

By  the  strong  eagle  of  war,  and  planted  far 

Among  the  streams  of  Shinar.     Then  I  saw 

The  long,  slow,  wicked  living  of  the  kings 

Out-tiring  God's  long-suffering  while  He  sent 

Prophets  to  hew  them  with  His  Word's  sharp  sword. 

Hacking  the  grove  and  cleaving  the  high  place, 

His  judgments  every  morning  going  forth, 

Clear  as  the  sun's  uprising — but  in  vain  ! 

So  that  even  here — two  hundred  years  ago — 

Hosea  saw  the  spreading  idol-snare 

As  on  the  rounded  height  of  Tabor  hill — 

And  I  with  my  own  eyes  beheld  the  snare 

Still  spread — still  here — till  all  Chaldea  came, 

And,  in  a  sudden  storm  of  blood  and  fire, 

Broke  all  the  kingdom's  power,  and  took  the  king, 

And  slew  his  <;ons  before  his  very  sight, 

Then  burned  his  sight  away — and  here  am  I, 

Charged  with  the  humble  remnant  of  God's  own, 

The  poor,  afflicted  dressers  of  the  soil, 

Not  strong  enough  to  drudge  in  Babylon  ! 

Some  scattered  forces  wander  in  the  field, 

And  some  have  gathered  to  me  with  their  guides, 

Johanan,  Jonathan,  and  Ishmael — 

Warlike,  yet  aimless,  with  no  foe  to  fight 

But  hunger  and  a  rising  discontent, 

Which  breaks  them  from  their  purpose  more  and  more. 

This  Ishmael,  they  tell  me,  has  been  hired 


488  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

By  Bene-Ammon  with  no  good  intent ; 

And,  taking  me  aside  upon  the  wall, 

Johanan  bade  me  note  the  oily  tongue 

Of  Ishmael,  and  his  lithe  and  wiry  limbs, 

His  eye  both  quick  and  furtive,  and  his  smile, 

Which,  said  Johanan,  he  had  never  seen 

Except  in  men  who  have  a  thirst  for  blood  ; 

And,  while  he  talked,  again  the  mist  arose 

As  from  my  courtyard  well — which  whispered  death ; 

The  mystic  veil  of  life  seemed  growing  thin, 

But  yet  I  could  not  let  my  ruler's  heart 

Inherited  from  good  Ahikam's  breast, 

As  his  from  Shaphan's — noble  ancestry ! — 

Grow  timid  with  suspicions — nor  could  give 

A  sanction  based  on  less  than  act  and  deed 

For  staving  off  my  risks  with  Ishmael's  life. 

Man  judges  by  a  gesture  or  a  look, 

God  reads  the  heart,  let  God  defend  His  own. 

This  even  I  have  bid  him  to  a  feast ; 

He  eats  my  bread,  and  if  he  lift  his  heel 

Against  me — as  one  did  against  a  king, 

Whose  high-impassioned  heart,  whatever  fault 

Were  chargeable  against  it,  always  scorned 

To  crouch  with  little  fears  and  little  cares — 

Then  let  him  smite,  and  let  me,  smitten,  die — 

Better  to  die  than  wrong  one  honest  heart — 

Better  to  die  than  live  and  fear  to  die. 

This  charming  re-embodiment  of  old  Eastern  thought, 
feeling,  character,  and  life,  we  owe  to  Mr.  James  Smetham, 
one  of  those  examples  of  devotion  to  purely  spiritual  work  in 
the  Church  which  are,  it  may  be  feared,  getting  rare  now 
among  modern  Methodist  laymen ;  especially  rare  in  its 
harmonious  combination  with  high  qualities  and  cultured 
gifts ;  one  with  his  lot  cast  amidst  a  generation  of  professors, 
to  crowds  of  whom  an  apostle  might  say,  "  When  for  the 
time  ye  ought  to  be  teachers,  ye  have  need  that  one  teach  you 
again  which  be  the  first  principles  of  the  oracles  of  God,  and 
are  become  such  as  have  need  of  milk,  and  not  of  strong 
meat."  Yet,  the  poet  is  one  who  may  be  classed  with  the 
"  perfect,  to  whom  strong  meat  belongs,  and  who  by  habit 
have  their  inward  senses  alive  to  distinguish  and  properly 
estimate  both  good  and  evil."  He  is  one,  too,  who  in  times 
when  intellectual  culture  and  refinement  of  taste  are  allowed 
so  largely  to  alienate  Methodists  from  the  more  spiritual  and 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  489 

distinctive  ordinances  of  their  own  community,  finds  his  joy 
in  bringing  all  the  native  and  acquired  graces  of  his  mind 
and  heart  to  his  beloved  and  successful  work  as  a  class-leader. 
Nor  can  those  who  know  him  fail  to  see  the  secret  of  his 
spiritual  influence  and  power  over  the  souls  who  are  happily 
under  his  leadership.  That  secret  may  be  found  in  the  pure 
child-like  simplicity  of  aim  which  shows  itself  with  such 
lovely  transparency  in  his  hymn  on  "  The  Single  Wish"  : — 

One  thing-,  O  Lord,  do  I  desire ; 
Withhold  not  Thou  my  wish  from  me, 
Which  warms  me  like  a  secret  fire  : 
That  I,  Thy  child,  may  dwell  with  Thee,— 

Dwell  in  Thy  house  for  evermore, 
Thy  wondrous  beauty  to  behold, 
And  make  inquiry  as  of  yore, 
Till  all  Thy  will  to  me  is  told. 

In  this  pavilion  have  I  hid 
These  many  years  when  hurt  by  sin, 
Or  by  my  angry  sorrows  chid, 
Or  deaf  with  life's  unceasing  din. 

Blown  hither  by  the  blasts  of  fear, 
Or  stooping  with  the  weight  of  care, 
My  feet  have  hastened  year  on  year, 
With  psalm  of  praise  or  sigh  of  prayer. 

Fear  tells  my  heart  that  I  may  be 
One  day  an  alien  from  Thy  door ; 
May  cease  Thy  lovely  face  to  see, 
And  hear  Thy  whispers  never  more. 

This  woe  hath  not  befallen  yet ; 
Shall  it,  O  Rock  of  Strength  !  befall  ? 
Then  were  my  sun  for  ever  set, 
And  dropped  in  that  abyss  my  all! 

Tell  me  this  hour  shall  never  come  ; 
Plant  me  so  deep  Thy  courts  among, 
That  I  may  have  my  final  home, 
And  end  where  I  began  my  song. 

"I  was  the  only  son  of  my  father,"  said  a  minister  the 
other  day  j  "  his  hope  and  mainstay  amidst  the  toils  and  cares 
of  his  old  age.  I  knew  somehow,  from  within,  that  I  should 
be  taken  from  his  side.      One  conviction  had  been  fixed  in 


49°  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

my  mind  from  very  early — life  that  was,  that  I  should  be  a 
preacher  of  the  Gospel.  At  the  same  time  I  had  a  persuasion 
equally  strong,  that   no  forward  step   was  needed    on    my 
part;  but  that,    if  I  placed  nothing  in    the  way,  my  path 
would  be  opened,  and  I  should  most  certainly  be  led  into  my 
proper  place  for  life.      By-and-by,  in  some  way,  the  thing 
was  put  before  my  father.      He  opposed  it,  and  so  did  his 
friends.       Indeed,    he    refused    his    consent  that   any    step 
should  be  taken  to  effect  my  separation  from  him.      There 
was  delay,  therefore,  until  I  was  taken  with  fever,  and  on  the 
abatement  of  fever  was  seized  with  pleurisy.      I  remember 
the  night  when  an  old  physician  stood  by  my  bedside.     I  saw 
him  shake  his  head.      I  knew  what  he  thought,  but  was  in 
perfect    peace.     My    father    was    told    that   I   should    not, 
probably,  live  till  the  morning.     Dear  old  man  !   I  found  out 
afterwards   that   he    had    shut   himself   up    with   God,   and 
pleaded  for  my  life,  vowing  that,  if  I  were  spared,  he  would 
give  me  up  to  the  work  from  which  he  had  hitherto  withheld 
me.     I  saw  the  light  of  another  day.      Disease  had  been  re- 
buked, and  the  morning  found  me  fresh  and  hopeful.     That 
night  had  been  one   of  '  weeping '  to  my  father  ;  but  ■  joy 
came  in  the  morning,'  and  the  old  man  realized  the  double 
joy  of  feeling,  that  God  had  not  only  heard  his  prayer,  but 
had  accepted  the  sacrifice  of  his  boy  for  the  service  of  Christ. 
Recollections  of  that  night  and  that  following  morning  will 
never  pass  away.     In  that  morning  light  stood  my  father  and 
the    old  physician  once  more  by  my  bedside — one  smiling 
to  see  me  smile,  and  the  other  in  wonderment  at  the  startling 
change,   but    piously  willing  to  think    that    my  restoration 
might  be,  in  a  great  degree,  owing  to  the  peace  of  my  soul, 
allowing  the  body  its   utmost   advantage   of  quietness  and 
freedom  to  rally.  My  recollections  of  that  scene  have  become 
much  more  fresh  and  bright  since  I  met  with  some  lines  by 
the  Rev.  F.  F.  Woolley,  now  of  Hammersmith,  whom  I  knew 
long  ago,  but  whom  I  have  not  seen  for  years,  and,  perhaps, 
shall  never  see  again  in  the  flesh.   How  little  one  can  foresee 
Who  would  have  thought  at  our  interview  in  earlier  life  that 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  4QI 

verses  from  his  pen  would  have  come  to  brighten  my  retro- 
spect now,  and  by  their  tender  beauty  and  true  poetic  feeling 
help,  in  my  evening  of  life,  to  deepen  my  assurance  that,  to  the 
very  end,  I  shall  find  it  true,  f  In  the  evening  weeping  endures, 
and  singing  in  the  dawn  j '  or,  as  our  Methodist  preacher 
and  songster  entitles  his  song,  *  Joycometh  in  the  morning  '  : — 

"  The  shades  of  evening  deepen  fast, 
Looming  along  the  dreary  lea ; 
Each  sound  of  rural  life  is  past — 
The  herd's  deep  low,  the  rustic's  glee, 
The  throstle's  song,  the  hum  of  bee — 
And  silence  reigns  at  last. 

Uncheer'd  by  the  dim  taper's  light, 

The  watcher  by  the  couch  of  pain 
In  the  still  chamber  feels  the  night, 

And  fears  her  hope  hath  all  been  vain ; 

Nor  in  the  gloom  dares  hope  again 
For  buoyant  spirit  bright. 

The  ever-restless  fevered  brow, 
The  beautiful  and  speaking  eye, 

The  burning  lips  which  whisper  low, 
The  rapid  breath,  the  sudden  sigh, 
All  tell  that  loved  one  soon  must  die — 

No  hope  remaineth  now. 

With  slow,  soft  step  she  walks  the  room, 

Or  bends  to  soothe  the  weary  head  ; 
Counting  each  lazy  hour  of  gloom, 

And  longing  that  the  last  were  fled — 

For  night  seems  suited  to  the  dead, 
And  to  the  silent  tomb. 

And  often  peering  through  the  pane 

Her  eye  looks  for  a  streak  of  grey 
Along  the  east,  but  looks  in  vain  ; 

The  darkness  doth  not  pass  away, 

No  tint  tells  of  the  coming  day — 
Life  dawns  not  on  the  brain. 

But  lo  !  at  length  the  twilight  gleams, 

The  clouds  begin  to  break  and  fly, 
The  morning  opes  in  rosy  beams, 

Unveiling  now  a  beauteous  sky, 

And  sheds  upon  her  weary  eye 
Its  glittering,  golden  streams. 

New  life  that  orient  light  doth  bring ; 
The  blackbird  pipes  its  liquid  note. 


492  THE   POETS   OF  METHODISM. 

The  lark  is  on  its  buoyant  wing, 

Its  rich  song  on  the  air  afloat; 

And  every  warbler  swells  its  throat 
In  gleesome  carolling. 

Hope  shineth  on  the  sufferer's  bed ; 

The  listless  hand  is  cooler  now, 
Softer  the  eye,  and  calm  the  head, 

The  flush  no  more  is  on  the  brow, 

The  pulse,  erst  rapid,  beateth  slow ; 
The  watcher's  prayer  hath  sped  ! 

Fear  now  hath  vanished  with  the  night, 

And  hope  revives  her  soul  at  last ; 
Her  heart,  and  eye,  and  face,  are  bright ; 

Joy  cometh  with  the  morning  fast; 

Thank  God  the  gloomy  night  is  past ! 
Thank  God  for  morning  light  1 " 

Every  man  has  his  own  mental  and  moral  inheritance. 
Family  physical  types  are  kept  up,  if  not  immediately  from 
one  to  another  in  the  family  line,  yet  making  their  appearance 
again  in  clear  distinctiveness  after  more  or  less  of  interval. 
But  mental  and  moral  features,  too,  are  mysteriously  per- 
petuated ;  and  much  of  suffering  as  well  as  comfort  may  be 
the  lot  of  one  generation,  coming  as  a  sort  of  bequeath ment 
from  another  that  was  before  it.  It  does  not  follow,  how- 
ever, that  a  man  must  be  a  poet  because  his  father  was  before 
him.  Though  sometimes  the  original  poetic  genius  and 
elemental  powers  that  were  possessed  and  put  forth  with  un- 
trained energy  by  a  father,  may  show  themselves  in  the  son 
more  richly  developed,  and  harmonized  under  circumstances 
of  culture.  So  it  would  appear  to  be  from  the  public  utter- 
ances and  poetic  effusions  of  one,  at  least,  among  living 
Methodist  songsters. 

It  was  on  a  Whit-Monday,  about  seventy  years  ago,  that 
the  little  village  of  Denby  in  South  Derbyshire  was  all  astir. 
The  Benefit  Club  was  to  turn  out,  and  march  to  church. 
There  was  a  mustering  of  old  flags.  Every  man  proudly 
handled  his  newly-painted  staff.  Flute  and  fiddle,  triangle, 
bagpipes,  and  drum,  were  attuned.  The  ranks  fell  in.  The 
band  struck  up;  and  then, 

With  motion  like  clock-work,  they  all  move  along, 
First  right  leg,  then  left,  as  the  bell  goes  ding  dong. 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  493 

All  at  last  were  in  their  places  at  church.  There  was  to 
be  the  usual  sermon  from  the  parson,  who  was  nothing 
loath  to  dispense  his  guinea's  worth  ;  for  temporalities  were 
of  more  importance  to  him  than  such  spiritual  matters  as  he 
thought  might  be  left  to  those  who  knew  more  about  them. 
His  Whit-Monday  sermon  was,  perhaps,  more  valuable  than 
many  others  in  his  stock,  as  it  served  every  year,  and  every 
year  was  again  paid  for  by  the  club.  All  were  on  the  look 
out  for  the  homily,  now  become  so  well  known ;  when, 
lo !  even  thoughts  of  the  club  dinner  were  interrupted  by 
the  announcement  of  a  new  text,  and  by  the  opening  of  a 
new  sermon.  What  could  this  mean  ?  The  text,  too,  was 
remarkable — "  Be  not  righteous  over  much  •  neither  make 
thyself  over  wise ;  why  shouldest  thou  destroy  thyself?" 
The  problem  was  soon  solved.  It  was  a  sermon  against  the 
Methodists.  The  club  was  warned  and  exhorted  to  beware 
of  the  over-righteous  people  whose  teachings  and  practice  were 
declared  to  be  dangerous  to  soul  and  body,  Church  and  State j 
tending  most  certainly  to  self-destruction.  There  was  one 
Methodist  in  the  club  upon  whom  the  discourse  had  any- 
thing but  a  soothing  effect.  And  as  the  club  passed  out  in 
order  before  the  parson,  who,  at  the  close  of  the  service,  stood 
in  the  porch  to  give  them  his  smile,  this  young  member  con- 
fronted his  pastor,  and  cried  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  "  If 
Satan,  sir,  had  taken  the  pulpit  this  morning,  he  would  have 
preached  as  you  did!"  "Who  are  you?"  was  the  angry 
response,  "who  are  you,  who  presume  to  call  a  clergyman  in 
question  ?  "  "Sir  !  "  replied  the  other,  "  if  some  one  did  not 
speak,  surely  the  very  stones  would  cry  out !  "  The  parson 
left  the  field.  At  this  crisis,  when  there  might  be  some  fears 
that  the  young  zealot's  conduct  would  cost  him  dismissal 
from  his  master's  service,  for  he  was  a  farm-servant,  the  very 
master  himself,  recovering  a  little  from  the  bewilderment 
into  which  the  parson's  discourse  had  thrown  him,  walked 
up,  and  said,  "  Benjamin,  if  you'll  tell 's  what  that  text  really 
means,  we'll  all  stop  and  hear  you."  It  was  too  good  a 
chance  for  Benjamin,  who  was,  in  fact,  a   Methodist  local 


494  THE   POETS  OF  METHODISM. 

preacher.  He  took  his  stand  on  the  church  steps.  He  was 
no  more  in  apparent  social  position  than  farmer  Abel's  man  ; 
but  to  unseen  observers  he  was  really  more.  There  he  stood, 
with  his  long  face,  which  told  how  used  he  was  to  pondering  ; 
his  high,  round  brow,  showing  its  signs  of  power  beneath  his 
black  hair,  combed  in  straight  primitive  fashion ;  his  large 
Roman  nose,  and  his  eye — verily  his  eye — there  was  but  one 
— his  flashing  brown  eye.  The  power  of  that  eye  was  felt 
by  a  person,  who  says,  "  I  heard  him  preach  once.  His  text 
was,  'Upon  one  stone  shall  be  seven  eyes.'  And  I  thought 
as  I  looked  up  at  him  and  met  his  gaze,  '  And  sure  enough 
you've  got  one  of  them  !'  "  But  now  that  eye  threw  its  light 
around  from  the  church  steps  upon  the  congregated  club, 
standing  with  their  banners  and  staves,  and  hushed  band, 
willing  even  to  delay  their  dinner,  that  they  might  have  a 
sermon  from  one  of  themselves.  The  text  was  the  parson's 
own.  And  now  the  preacher  lifted  up  his  strong,  well- 
modulated  voice,  and  with  firm  articulation,  fervent  gravity, 
logical  expertness,  vigorous  and  quaint  style,  he  held  the 
crowd  in  deep,  silent  attention,  while  he  showed  that "  over- 
much righteousness  is  necessarily  a  righteousness  pushed  too 
far  in  one  direction ;  that  the  over-much  righteousness  which 
tends  to  self-destruction  is  self-righteousness,  showing  itself 
in  various  ways — in  straining  towards  a  self-imposed  standard 
of  righteousness  in  one's  own  strength,  instead  of  frankly 
accepting  the  righteousness  of  the  Gospel  ;  an  over-done, 
hollow,  outward  righteousness,  paying  *  tithe  of  mint, 
anise,  and  cummin ; '  an  over-much  righteousness  in  one's 
own  conceit,  needing  no  repentance,  not  submitting  to  the 
righteousness  of  God  j  the  worst  instance  of  overdoing  in 
one  direction,  which  is  undoing  in  another."  This  was  the 
first  Methodist  sermon  ever  heard  in  Denby.  And  this 
preaching  genius  was  Benjamin  Gregory,  the  father  of  a 
genius,  scholar,  theologian,  preacher,  writer,  Christian  poet, 
still  living  to  bless  Methodism  with  his  consecrated  utterances 
in  prose  and  verse.  Surely,  if  the  hallowed  employment  of 
poetic  gifts  on  the  part  of  the  son  gives  pleasure   to  the 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  495 

poetic  spirit  of  a  glorified  parent,  one  may  think  of  the  old 
preacher  in  paradise,  setting  his  son's  grand  and  beautiful 
psalms  to  music,  and  finding  his  joy  deepened  while  singing 
such  metrical  renderings  from  the  Psalter  as  this,  on  the  first 
seventeen  verses  of  the  eighteenth  Psalm: — 

I  love  Thee  from  my  inmost  heart, 

O  Lord  !  my  strong  munition  : 
My  sunlit  castle  crag,  Thou  art, 

My  God,  my  foe's  perdition  ; 

Redeemer,  Rock  of  rest, 

Broad  buckler,  crowning  crest, 

My  horn  of  victory, 

My  tower  heaven-high, 
My  song,  and  my  salvation. 

For  death's  wild  waves  came  roaring  round, 

And  Belial's  bands  assailed  me, 
I  sunk  in  hell's  black  horrors  drown'd, 

My  struggles  nought  availed  me ; 

Death  had  me  in  his  net, 

He  drew  it  tighter  yet; 

My  suffocating  cry 

Was  lifted  up  on  high — 
It  rose  unto  the  Temple. 

Then  the  earth  shook  and  trembled  sore, 

Started  her  strong  foundation  ; 
The  monarch  mountains  shrunk  before 

Jehovah's  indignation ; 

Uprose  the  pillar'd  smoke, 

Fire  from  His  mouth  outbroke, 

And  the  charred  cedars  blazed  ; 

Earth's  ruin  glowed  and  glazed 
Beneath  the  stooping  heavens. 

Upon  a  cherub  strong  He  flew, 

The  solid  blackness  bore  Him  ; 
The  winged  wings  His  chariot  drew, 

And  cleft  the  gloom  before  Him  : 

Thick  darkness  was  his  shrine, 

Around  Him  tempests  twine, 

Clouds  His  pavilion  spread, 

And  canopy  o'erhead  ; 
Hail-storms  are  his  outriders. 

As  from  mid-gloom  His  glory  shone 

The  reverent  clouds  retreated, 
Hurling  huge  stones  my  foes  upon, 

And  bolts  in  fury  heated. 


49^  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

Hark  !    O'er  the  hush  of  fear 
His  battle-shout  I  hear ! 
Peal  over  peal  it  rolls, 
Hailstones  and  hissing  coals 
From  the  rent  heaven  outshaking. 

He  sent  out  arrows  fast  and  far, 

And  my  fierce  foes  He  scatter'd  ; 
With  lightnings  from  His  rushing  car 

Their  serried  ranks  He  shatter'd. 

Old  Ocean  felt  His  breath, 

And  struck  with  shivering  death, 

He  gathered  up  his  waves, 

Laid  bare  his  oozy  caves 
To  the  world's  gaping  centre. 

Deep  down  among  the  startled  dead 

His  melting  eye  hath  found  me  ; 
His  angels  sped  to  raise  my  head, 

His  arm  1  felt  around  me. 

From  the  devouring  foam 

His  heart  received  me  home, 

And  my  strong  enemies 

Let  go  their  helpless  prize — 
For  He  hath  over-matched  them. 

The  departed  father  of  Benjamin  Gregory,  the  author  of 
this  fine  rendering,  entered  the  ranks  of  the  Methodist 
ministry  in  1799,  and  became  remarkable  among  remarkable 
contemporaries,  such  as  Jabez  Bunting,  Robert  Newton,  and 
Daniel  Isaac.  He  was  born  at  Little  Eaton,  Dear  Derby, 
November  25,  17723  where,  very  early,  he  manifested  his 
native  poetic  quaintness  of  turn  by  issuing  a  popular  nursery- 
rhyme,  suggested  by  the  monotonous  music  of  the  church- 
bells,  and,  perhaps,  the  growing  numbers  of  spoiled,  or,  as 
he  would  say,  marred  children  : — 

Ring  'em,  ding  'em ;  bells  at  Eaton, 
Crying  children  must  be  beaten ; 
Beaten  i'  th'  house,  beaten  i'  th'  yard, 
All  because  they  are  so  marr'd. 

This  nursery-rhymester's  parentage  was  not  favourable  to 
Methodism ;  his  father  being  parish  clerk,  and  his  mother  a 
Unitarian.  But  under  Methodist  preaching  his  heart  was 
changed,  and  his  mental  powers  developed,  until  he  became 
proof  against  Church  influence,  powerful  against  the  Socinian 


SOME    OF    THE    LATEST    SONS    OF    SONG.  A^J 

Antichrist,  and  so  distinguished  as  a  preacher  that,  after 
thirty  years'  work  in  the  Methodist  Itinerancy,  he  was 
welcomed  back  and  honoured  in  "his  own  country"  as  an 
able  minister  of  Jesus  Christ.  He  had  poetic  genius  as  well 
as  pulpit  power.  Of  this  he  has  left  evidence  in  a  single 
published  sermon  on  the  "  Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte," 
and  in  a  small  volume,  entitled,  "  Short  Poems  on  various 
Religious  Subjects."  His  pulpit  power  has  been  inherited, 
enriched,  and  beautified,  by  his  son,  the  editor,  of  the  City 
Road  Magazine ;  and  in  that  son  he  has  an  elegant  and 
cultured  representative  of  his  poetic  genius  and  power.  None 
will  doubt  this  after  they  have  caught  the  spirit  and  felt  the 
music  of  that  son's  metrical  version  of  the  forty-second 
Psalm  : — 

As  the  chased  hart  on  the  mountains, 

Peering-  backward  wistfully, 
Panteth  for  the  far-off  fountains, 

So  my  soul,  O  God,  for  Thee ! 
For  the  living  God  it  thirsteth  ; 

When  shall  I  again  appear 
Where  salvation's  current  bursteth 

From  Thy  presence  fresh  and  clear  ? 

Tears  have  been  my  only  diet, 

Sole  refreshment  of  my  nights, 
Whilst  upon  my  dumb  disquiet, 

Still  the  scornful  question  smites, 
"  Where  is  now  thy  God,  thy  'Glory'  ?  " 

Brooding  thus  my  soul  I  pour, 
Telling  it  the  silent  story 

Of  my  blessedness  of  yore. 

To  God's  house  I  marched  singing, 

'Mid  the  Sabbath-keeping  throng, 
With  our  praise  the  city  ringing, 

As  we  slowly  stept  along. 
O,  my  soul,  why  thus  dejected? 

Why  disquieted  in  me? 
Hope  in  God  ;   His  smile  reflected 

On  my  face  again  shall  be. 

O,  my  God,  my  spirit  sinketh; 

Yet  will  I  remember  Thee  ; 
From  the  land  whose  exile  drinketh 

Jordan's  separating  sea; 


498  THE    POETS    OF    METHODISM. 

From  old  Hermon's  shadows  lonely, 
And  from  Mizar's  darkened  hill, 

I  will  think  upon  Thee  only — 
1  will  think  upon  Thee  still. 

Deep  to  deep  the  signal  shouteth, 

Wave  to  wave  roars  wild  reply, 
And  Thy  answering  tempest  spouteth 

From  the  chasms  of  the  sky : 
All  Thy  billows  have  gone  o'er  me  ; 

Yet  the  Lord  will  soon  command 
His  own  guardian  Love  before  me, 

Like  the  glory-cloud,  to  stand. 

All  day  long  His  hand  shall  shade  me, 

All  the  night  His  song  shall  cheer, 
And  my  prayer  to  Him  who  made  me 

Shall  delight  His  willing  ear  : 
Th;  jmy  free  expostulation 

Unto  God,  my  Rock,  shall  be, 
Why  hast  Thou,  my  sworn  Salvation, 

In  my  woes  forgotten  me  ? 

Why  go  I  in  scorned  sorrow, 

Bow'd  beneath  the  tyranny 
Of  Thy  foes,  till  conscience  borrow 

Tauntings  of  the  enemy  ? 
As  a  poison -pointed  arrow, 

Fiery  dart,  bone-bruising  rod, 
Sword-point  piercing  joints  and  marrow, 

Comes  the  taunt,  "  Where's  now  thy  God  ?  " 

O,  my  soul,  why  thus  dejected  ? 

Why  disquieted  in  me  ? 
Hope  in  God ;  His  smile  reflected 

On  my  face  again  shall  be. 


INDEX 


A  giant  flower,  &c. 
A  lily  of  the  vale  without  a  spot 
Author  of  Being,  Source  of  Light  » 

A  Steward  once,  the  Scripture  says   . 
Angels,  where'er  we  go,  attend 
As  o'er  fair  Cloe's  rosy  cheek 
Arise,  my  soul,  arise 
Away  with  our  sorrow  and  fear 
Ask  not  who  ended  here  his  span 
All  hail  the  power  of  Jesu's  name 
"  A  Descriptive  and  Plaintive  Elegy  on  the  Death 

of  the  late  Rev.  John  Wesley  " 
"  A  Penitential  Soliloquy  " 

As  through  mid-air  the  sweeping  current  blows 
Awake,  my  muse,  and  swell  the  votive  lay 
As   some   bright    cloud,    by  evening's  sunlight 

painted  .... 

Amidst  the  wonders  Islington  can  boast 
Accept,  dear  Mary,  on  thy  natal  day 
"  A  Psalm  of  Prophecy  "         . 
And  light  I  saw  like  to  a  flowing  river 
u  A  Christian  seeking  to  be  useful" 
"  Among  the  Mountains  " 

"A  Christmas  welcome  to  divers  sparrows,"  &c. 
A  poor  old  crow,  with  wounded  wing 
Almighty  God,  whose  hand  of  power,  &c. 
Art  thou  created  for  a  sinner's  sight 
Ah,  meet  me  at  the  portal  of  the  grave 
"  Angel  whispers  "... 
"  A  Rural  Sketch  "  ... 

All  the  world's  a  stage 
A  faithful  witness  of  Thy  grace 
"  At  the  Door  "  . 

And  would'st  thou  wake  the  minstrel's  lyre  ?  . 
As  the  chased  hart  on  the  mountains     . 
"  Apology  for  the  enemies  of  music  " 
"  A  Retrospect  "     . 
"  Anti-Empiricus  "    . 


PAGE 

Emma  Tatham.       8 

Do.  8,  9 

S.  Wesley,  Senr.  34 

Do.  50 

C.  Wesley.  59,  60 

John  Wesley.     79 

C.  Wesley.   118 

Do.   145 

Gambold.   166 

Ed.  Perronet.   182 

Oliver.  239,  240 

Byrom.   248 

A.  Bulmer.  271 

Treffry,  Junr.  287 


Do. 

S.  Drew. 

Do. 

J.  Sutclife. 

Dante. 

W.  M.  Bunting. 

Do. 

Do. 

Do. 

E.  Tatham. 

Do. 

Do. 

B.  Gough. 

Do. 
Shakespeare. 

C.  Wesley. 

B.  Gough. 
T.  Garland. 
B.  Gregory. 

C.  Wesley. 

Do. 
J.  W.  Thomas. 


299 
315 
315 

327 
366 
38i 
383 
384 
385 
403 
410 
409 
435 
443 
449 
450 

45 
457 
479 

92 

J53 
393 


5°° 


:ndex. 


Before  this  beauteous  world  was  made    . 

Behold  the  Saviour  of  mankind 

Beneath,  a  sleeping  infant  lies     . 

But  should  the  bold  usurping  spirit 

Bound  in  chains  of  hidden  night 

But,  oh,  thou  man  of  God 

Beneath  this  solitary  shade 

Bible,  Verses  on 

"Blessings,"  A  hymn     . 

Be  thou  rich  or  poor  .... 

Bathed  in  the  ruddy  light 

Come,  neighbours,  with  your  sticks  and  stones 
Commit  thou  all  thy  griefs 


Come,  Thou  everlasting  Lord 

Come,  O  thou  Traveller  unknown 

Come  hither,  ye  whom  from  an  evil  world 

Children  of  the  heavenly  King     . 

Come,  O  my  God  and  King 

Come,  immortal  King  of  Glory  . 

Careless  content 

Come,  Saviour  Jesus,  from  above 

Companions  of  Thy  little  flock 

Christ,  He  sits  on  Zion's  hill 

"  Covenant  Hymn  "  . 

Come,  let  us  use  the  grace  divine 

Come,  Holy  Ghost,  all  quickening  fire 

"  Christian  Heroism  ''     . 

Come,  climb  with  me 

11  Christ  by  the  Sea  ''       . 

11  Character  and  Exploits  of  David":  A  Poem 

"  Conversion  Hymn  "     . 

Dear  mother,  you  were  once 

Death  in  the  pot !  'tis  always  there  . 

Dear  Jesus,  cast  a  look  on  me 

Devotion  !  holiest  offspring  of  the  skies 

"  Divina  Comedia  "  . 

Down  into  hollows  where  the  running  brooks  . 

"  Epistle  concerning  Poetry  " 

"  English  bards,''  &c.  .  . 

England,  Verses  to  Christian 

Enoch,  the  seventh,  walked  with  God 

"  Edwin  ;  or,  Northumbrian  Royal  Captive  " 

"  Early  Christian  Songs  "       . 

Epitaph   ..... 

Eupolis'  u  Hymn  to  the  Creator  " 

From  whence  these  dire  portents 
Farewell  to  the  world 


PACK 

5.  Wesley.     34 

Do     38,39 

S.  Wesley,  J unr.  51 

C.  Wesley.  57 

Do.  58 

Berridge.  193 

Brackenbury.  254 

A.  Bulmer.  271 

Do.   279 

E.  Tatham.  401 

J.  Harris.  422 


J.  Wesley ,  from 

Gerhardt.    T08 

C.  Wesley.   121 

Do.   155 

Gambold.   165 

Cennick.    199 

W.  Darney.  214 

Oliver.    222 

Byrom.   246 

Do.  fromBourignon.  247 

Lady  Huntingdon.   263 

Bourne.  333 

W.  M.  Bunting.  377 

C.  Wesley.  378 

Do.  382 

J.  Harris.   422 

B.  Gough.  442 
C.  L.  Ford.  674 

M.  Hare  480 
C.  Wesley.  86,87 

Hetty  Wesley.     67 

C.  Wesley.   152 
Berridge.   190 

McNicoil.  318 
Dante.  364 

B.  Gough.  441 

S.Wesley,  Sen.  38,  351 

Byron.  38,  351 

A.  Bulmer.  276 

Bourne.  334 

J.  Everett.  450 

M.  Hare.  480 

C.  Wesley.  £9 
5.  Wesley.  34 

S.Wesley,  Junr.  54,  55 
Hetty  Wesley.     77 


INDEX 

Father  of  all,  whose  powerful  voice 

Father  of  everlasting  grace     . 

"  Festival  Songs  " 

For  thousand,  thousand  mercies  new 

Far  be  it  from  me  I  should  choose 

Farewell,  ye  scenes  where  desolation  reigns 

For  her  on  the  morn  of  her  biith 

"  Good  Friday  Hymn  '' 
Great  Power,  at  whose  Almighty  hand 
God  of  faithful  Abraham,  hear 
Guide  me,  O  Thou  great  Jeho\ah 
Glory  to  God  on  high 
God  bless  the  king 
.  Gloomy  cloud,  that,  low'ring  low 
God's  Love 

"  Gertrude  of  Wyoming  " 
"  Gedaliah  in  Mizpah"  . 
"  Glcria  in  Excelsis  "  . 

Henceforth  may  no  profane  delight 

Hide  me  by  Thy  presence,  Lord 
Here  she  beholds  the  chaos  dark  . 
"  Hymns  and  Sacred  Poems" 

Hail,  Father,  whose  creating  word 

His  eyes  diffuce  a  venerable  grace 

How  happy  is  the  pilgrim's  lot     . 

How  shall  a  slave  released     . 

How  full  of  heaven  his  latest  word 

"  Hymn  of  Praise  to  Christ "  . 

"  Hymn  to  the  God  of  Abraham  " 

Hail,  thou  once  despised  Jesus 

"  Hymns,  A.  Collection  of  " 

High  on  Thy  heavenly  seat     . 

Hail,  holy  record  of  supernal  love 

Heaven,  to  thy  hands  the  lamp,  &c.    . 

Hail,  Lord  of  angel-hosts  above  . 

"  Hymns  for  Camp-meetings  " 

"  Hymns  for  Children  "  . 

"  Hymn  of  Thanksgiving  for  Preservation,"  &c 

How  glorious  the  mount  to  behold 

"  Hymns  for  Pastors  and  People  " 

He  had  written  much  blank  verse 

He  who  foresaw  the  ruin  of  mankind 

"  Hymn  of  Paradise  " 

Hail,  sweet  musician 

Hast  ever  seen  a  mine  ?    . 

Hail  to  thee,  little  flower 


5°i 

PAGE 

J.  Wesley.  98 

C.  Wesley.  148 

Do.  147 

A.  Bulmer.  279 

E.  F.  A.  Sergeant.  282 

S.  Drew.  309 

W.  M.  Bunting.  369 

39 

Hetty  Wesley.     76 

C.  Wesley.   123 

Williams.   177 

James  Allen.  215 

Byrom.  250 

A.  Bulmer.   273 

E.  Tatham.  401 

Campbell.  430 

James  Smetham.  486 

Williams.   177 

Byrom,  from 
Bourignon.      10 
C.  Wesley.     25 
P>pe.     28 
J.  &  C.  Wesey. 

34,  162,  97,  194 
5.  Wesley,  Junr. 

53,  54 

Emilia  Wesley.     60 

J.  Wesley.    1 02 

C.  Wesley.    1 1 6 

Do.   172 

Oliver.   230 

Do.   232 

Bakeu-ell.   258 

Lady  Huntingdon.  263 

A.  Bulmer.   269 

Do.   271 

Do.   276 

J.  Bustard.  332 

Bourne.   335 

J.  Everett.  337 

Do.  337 

Do.  339 

5.  Dunn.   340 

Byron.   352 

J.  W.  Thomas.  354 

Do.  358 

J.  Harris.  413 

Do.  421 

Do.  428 


502 


INDEX. 


Hail  to  thee,  mountain  birth-place 

Haunt  of  the  sea-bird 

Have  you  heard  an  angel's  whisper  ? 

Here  is  a  pleasant  nook 

Hail,  mighty  ocean 

"  Hosannah  to  the  Son  of  David  " 

In  a  mean  cot,  composed  of  reeds, 

If  highest  worth  in  beauty's  bloom 

If  blissful  spirits  condescend  . 

I  am  an  implement  that's  common 

If  e'er  thou  did'st  in  Hetty  see 

Integrity  needs  no  defence 

In  age  and  feebleness  extreme 

In  Thine  utmost  indignation 

I  am  content,  I  do  not  care     . 

It  was  a  fearful  night  when  fell  Despair 

In  what  soft  numbers  shall  my  muse 

I  love  the  dawnings  of  the  beautiful 

I  had  a  dream,  which  was  not  all 

In  the  beginning  ! — yes  . 

In  the  worst  inn's  worst  room 

It  was  at  Oxford,  as  I  said 

"  11  Paradiso  " 

In  Wensley  Dale  there  lies  a  village 

I'm  fond  of  travelling  old  deserted 

I  ask  Thy  heavenly  guidance 

I:m  very  fond  of  sparrows 

In  the  time  of  sorrow 

I  love  Thee  from  my  inmost  heart 

Jesus,  Thou  art  my  righteousness 
Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul 
Jesus,  the  name  high  over  all 
Jesus,  accept  the  grateful  song 
Jesus,  Thy  blood  and  righteousness 

Jesus,  my  all,  to  heaven  is  gone 

Jerusalem  divine 

Jesu,  touch  this  heart  of  mine 

Jesus,  at  Thy  command  I  go 

Joy  to  thine  opening  eye 

Joy  cometh  in  the  morning 

Kent  Sunday  Schools 

Let  thy  mind's  sweetness  have  its  operation 
Lo  !  from  the  borders  of  the  grave 
Leaning  on  Thy  loving  breast     . 
Lord,  I  Thy  messengers  receive 
Long  his  flight  the  avenging  angel 


PAGE 

J.  Harris.  429 
Do.  431 

B.  Gough.  436 

Do.  443 

C.  Garland.  450 

Williams.   177 

S.  Wesley.  31 

Hetty  Wesley.  62 

Do.  62,  63 

Do.  67 

Do.  71 

J.  Wesley.  80 

C.  Wesley.  89 

Do.  150 

Byrom.  244 

A.  Bulmer.  271 
Treffry,  Senr.  292 

McNicoll.  321 

J.  W.  Thomas.  347 

Bo.  348 

Pope.  351 

J.  W.  Thomas.  360 

Dante.  365 

E.  Tatham.  399 

J.  Harris.  412 

Do.  424 

B.  Gough.  446 

Do.  452 

B.  Gregory.  495 

C.  Wesley.   114 
Do.  131—134 

Do.  141,  142 
Do.  142 

J.  Wesley,  from 

Zinzendorf.  194 

Cennick.   196 

Rhodes.  2 1  2 

Byrom.  250 

Brackenbury.  254 

J.  Harris.  427 

F.  F.  Wooley.  491 

J.  Bustard.  330 

29 

Whitfield.   173 

Berridge.   193 

Brackenbury.  253 

A.  Bulmer.  272 


INDEX. 

"Life"  .... 

"  Litanies  and  Confessions  " 

Let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 

"  Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  " 

"Lays  from  the  Mine,  the  Moor,"  &c. 

"  Love  of  Home  " 

Little  music-breathing  lyre     . 

"  Land's  End  "    . 

Let  others  hail  their  day  of  birth 

"  Lyra  Christ i"  . 

My  God,  I  love  Thee,  not  because 

My  fortunes  often  bid  me  flee 

Methinks  I  see  you  striving  all 

Men  of  true  piety,  they  know  not  why 

My  name  be  on  the  children  ?     No     . 

"  Martyrdom  of  Ignatius  :  a  Tragedy  ' 

Make  the  extended  skies  your  tomb  . 

My  heart  and  voice  I  raise 

"  Messiah's  Conquest " 

"  Messiah's  Kingdom  " 

"  More  than  meets  the  eye  "  . 

Missionary  hymn 

Mount  Tabor 

"  Ministry  of  Angels  "     . 

My  mother's  voice  !  it  haunts  me 

"  My  Sparrows  " 

My  children,  pleasant  are  your  voices 

"  Maggots  "        . 

"Mitre,  The" 

Mirth,  Vain  :  A  hymn    . 

No  matter  how  dull  the  scholar 
No  fiction  shall  guide  my  hand  . 
No — wert  thou  as  thou  wast 
No  trumpet  was  blown    . 
Now  through  the  aisle 

O  Thou  whose  poetry  and  love    . 

O  let  my  heart  in  tune  be  found 

O  tarry  not,  your  Lord  obey 

Oh,  she's  dead ! — but  she's  gone,  &c. 

Or  worn  by  slowly  rolling  years  . 

Oppressed  with  utmost  weight  of  woe 

O  Lord,  I  bow  my  sinful  head 

O  God,  my  God,  my  all  Thou  art      . 

O  for  a  heart  to  praise  my  God  . 
O'er  the  gloomy  hills  of  darkness 
"  Occasional  Verses,  Moral  and  Sacred  " 
O  Father,  let  Thy  kingdom  come 


5°3 

PAGE 

McNicoll.  322 

J.  Sutcliffe.  325 

Milton.  345 

J.  W.  Thomas.  353 

J.  Harris.  416 

Do.  415 

Do.  416 

Do.  430 

T.  Garland.  462 

C.  L.  Ford.  470 

Hymns  A.  &  M.      15 

Hetty  Wesley.  55,   56 

S.  Wesley,  Junr.     64 

C.  Wesley.     92 

Do.   152 

Gamhold.   165 

Hervey.   169 

Rhodes.  209 

W.  Batty.  217 

A.  Bulmer.  270,   276 

McNicolt.  321 

J.  Sutcliffe.  329 

J.  Everett.  337 

W.  M.  Bunting.  374 

J.  Harris.  432 

B.  Gough.  446 
C.  L.  Ford.  472 

S.  Wesley.  27 — 29 

E.  Perronet.   183 

Berridge.   1 93 

C.  Wesley.      15 
5.  Wesley,  Junr.  64,  65 

C.  Wesley.  85 
Treffry,  Junr.  302 
J.  W.  Thomas.  360 

E.  Tatham.  5 

Watts.  14 

Old  Baptist  H.B.  15 

Anon.  17 

S.  Wesley,  Junr.  47,  48 

Hetty  Wesley.  74 

J.  Wesley.  81 

Do.,  from  the 

Spanish.  104 

C.  Wesley.  119 

Williams.  178 

Ed.  Perronet.  182 

Berridge.  189 


5<H 


INDEX. 


O,  dear  Redeemer,  who  alone 

Our  hearts  and  hands  to  Christ  we  raise 

Oh,  thou  God  of  my  salvation     . 

O'er  thy  much-loved  infant's  urn 

Oh,  the  river !  oh,  the  river 

On  Sinai's  lofty  steep,  where  Moses  stood 

Oh,  how  shall  the  sinner  perform 

Oh,  haupy  day  that  fixed  my  choice  . 

O  God,  how  often  hath  Thine  ear 

Oh,  for  my  Master's  generous  mind    . 

Oh,  never  could  my  Master  seek  . 

Oh,  that  thou  ha  i'st  a  soul,  sea-bird  . 

On  sweeps  the  war-fiend 

Oh,  wind  !  terrible  wind  !         . 

"  On  the  Meekness  and  Gentleness  of  Christ/' 

One  thing,  O,  Lord,  do  I  desire 

Poor  harmless  Wesley,  let  him  write  again 

Publish,  spread  to  all  around 

Peace  my  heart,  be  calm,  be  still 

Permit  me  to  foretell  thy  doom 

Praise  God,  my  soul,  whose  wondrous  love 

Paraphrase,  Poetic,  on  John  iii.  8 

"  Peace,  all  is  peace  !  "  th'  expiring  warrior  said 

"  Pleasures  of    Devotion"     . 

"  Psalms  and  Hymns"  . 

"  Peace  Poems  " 

Psalm  eighteenth 

Psalm   forty-second 


PAGH 

IVm.  Batty.  217 

Oliver.  230 

Do.  2.^7 

Treffry,  Senr.  290 

S.  Dunn.  340 

J.  W.  Thomas.  349 

C.  Wesley  379 

Doddridge.  379 

JV.  M.  Bunting.  379 

Do.  381 

Do.  386 

E.  Tatham.  406 

y.  Hams.  426 

B.  Gouzh.  438 
C.  L.  Ford.  477 

J.  Smetham.  489 

Dunton.     39 

C.  Jf'esley.     92 

D>.    in 

Ed.  Perronet.    185 

R.  Rodda.    204 

-4.  Buhner.    275 

Treffry,  Junr.    291 

McNieoU.  322 

J.  Sulci ffe.  326 

J.  Harris.   426 

B.  Gregory.  495 

Do.  497 


Quoth  Christ,  No  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground        W.  M.  Bunting.  384 


Righteous  God,  whose  vengeful  vials 

Beady  for  my  earthen  bed 

Rome,  its  Fall.  Verses  on 

"  Reflections  on  St.  Austell  Church-yard 

Ring  'em,  ding,  'em ;   bells  at  Eaton  . 

Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity     . 

Surely  when  Prometheus  climb'd 

Sweet  recreation  barr'd  . 

She  graced  my  humble  roof  . 

Spirit  of  faith,  come  down 

Saviour  of  all,  what  hast  Thou  done    . 

So  many  years  I've  seen  the  sun 

Since  all  the  downward  tracts  of  time 

Send  help,  O  Lord,  we  pray 

"  Sion's  Songs  " 

Sacred  Poetry  on  Old  and  New  Testament 

Sparkling  and  silent,  save  where 

"  Saul  of  Tarsus  " 


C.  Wesley.   140 
Do.   1  S3 

A.  Buhner.    272 

5.  Drew.  311,  31a 

B.  Gregory,  Senr.  496 


Shakespeare. 

S.  Jf'esley,  Senr. 

Shakespeare. 

i,  Senr.  31 

C.  Wedey. 

Do. 


17 

16 

'»7 


Gambold.   163 

Hervey.   167 

Berridge.    1 86 

Do.   191 

Brackenlury.    255 

Adeline.   2jj 

Tre/fry,  Junr.  302 


INDEX. 

"Scripture  Themes  in  Rills  and  Streams 

**  Salvation  for  All '' 

"  Save  Some  "... 

"Sinai"   .... 

Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong 

She  sate  upon  the  vessel's  deck     . 

Solomon's  Song,  English   version 

Saviour,  to  whom  my  strain  I  bring 

"Sea  Bird"  .... 

Shakespeare's  Birthday    . 

"  Spring  " 

Sweet,  simple  blossom  of  the  brake 

"  Song  of  Songs  "     . 

"  Short  Poems  on  various  Religious  Subjects  " 

"  Select  Psalms  "  . 

"  Short  Hymns  on  Select  Passages 

Though  now  there  seems  one  only,  &c. 

There's  bread  and  fish  for  you  and  me 

'Tis  like  the  precious  ointment 

The  race  is  not  for  ever  got 

To  lie  in  shady  cloister  mew'd 

The  snuff-box  first  provokes 

"  The  Life  of  Christ :"  A  Poem 

The  Father's  image  He,  as  great 

The  morning  flowers  display  their  sweet 

The  Lord  of  Sabbath  let  us  praise 

'Twas  owing  to  his  friendly  care 

The  period  fast  comes  on  when  I 

Though  sorer  sorrows  than  their  birth 

"  The  Resignation  " 

"  The  Man  of  Fashion  " 

Thou  God  of  harmony  and  love 

'Tis  done  !     The  Sovereign  will's  obey'd 

"  To  a  Friend  in  Love  " 

11  The  Mystery  of  Life  " 

Thou  who  a  tender  parent  art 

To  what  compare  thy  fertile  womb    . 

Thou  dear  Redeemer,  dying  Lamb 

The  God  of  Abraham  praise 

The  pensive  dove  whene'er  his  mate 

Turn  again,  my  children,  turn 

The  blessed  Jesus  is  my  Lord 

Then,  hapless  man,  the  soil  that  gave 

Thou  who  hast  in  Sion  laid 

Tropical  plain 

The  desert  spread  around  me 

These  eyes  have  seen  a  tender  mother 

There  shall  I  bathe  my  weary  soul 

The  perfect  man  has  faith  in  God 

"  The  Beginning '' 


5°5 


»» 

J.  Bustard. 

33^ 

H.  Bourne. 

336 

S.  Dunn. 

342 

J.  W.  Thomas. 

349 

Dry  dea. 

35" 

J.  W.  Thomas. 

356 

Do. 

356 

W.  M.  Bunting. 

375 

E.  Tat  ha  in. 

40S 

J.  Harris. 

422 

T.  Garland. 

468 

, 

C.  L.  Ford. 

476 

M.  Hare. 

480 

ects' 

.     B.  Gregory,  Senr. 

497 

C.  Wesley. 

150 

Do. 

15* 

French. 

6 
12 
13 
13 

Shakespeare. 

*5 

S.  Wesley,  Junr. 

30 

S.  Wesley,  Senr. 

32 

Do. 

34 

S.  Wesley,  yunr. 

48 

Do. 

52 

Hetty  Wesley. 

66 

Do. 

68 

Do. 

74 

Do. 

76 

C.  Wesley. 

85 

Do. 

94 

l' 

Do. 

96 

Gambold. 

162 

Do. 

'63 

Whitfield. 

174 

Edward  Perronet. 

183 

Cennick. 

l9S 

Oliver. 

232 

Do. 

240 

Brackenbury. 

255 

Lady  Huntingdon. 

265 

A.  Bulmer. 

270 

Do. 

275 

Adeline. 

278 

Do. 

278 

S.  Drew. 

307 

Watts. 

318 

S.  Dunn. 

34i 

J%   TV.  Thomas. 

34B 

$o6 


NDEX 


"  The  Cross  Anticipated  " 

"  The  Bridal  Week  "       . 

True  love  is  light  from  heaven 

The  reverend  gentleman  his  text 

"  The  Trilogy  " 

"  To  a  Mother  on  her  Birthday  " 

The  clamour  of  the  crowd  is  spent 

"The  Christian's  Chamber" 

*'  The  Mother's  Vigil " 

They  were  angels  come 

"  The  Dream  ot  Pythagoras  " 

'Twas  but  a  dream 

To  yet  another  lesson,  I  became 

The  mother  watched  with  love's 

"  Tempest  Hymn  ''  . 

"To  Die" 

The  babe  dies  peacefully  in  its  mother 

"  To  Music  "  . 

"  To  the  White  Rose  " 

"To  the  Passing  Month"     . 

"  To  the  Hawthorn  " 

"  To  the  Thrush  "     . 

"To  the  Skylark" 

The  earth  is  fair  with  fields 

"  The  First  Violet  " 

"  The  Mother's  Teaching  "    . 

The  springs  of  hope 

There's  a  language  that's  mute 

"  To  Isabelle  " 

'Tis  spring — I  know  by  the  soften'd 

The  one  sweet  resting-place 

"  To  the  Ocean  •' 

"The  Stars" 

"The  Last  Slumber" 

Thy  ways  were  in  the  haunts  of  men 

"To  Children  Playing" 

"  To  a  Wild  Rose'" 

The  folded  napkin  'mid  the  earthquake' 

Thee,  God,  we  praise 

'Tis  the  heait  must  truly  speak 

This  evening  1  walk  upon  the  walls 

"The  Single  Wish" 

The  shades  of  evening  deepen  fast 

Upborne  aloft  on  venturous  wing 
"  Union  Version  of  the  Psalms  " 
Unsaved,  O  Lord,  Thy  people  are 
Unbounded  source  of  joy 

"Vision  of  Judgment  "   . 
"  Vale  of  Siddim  "     . 


PAGE 

J.  W.  Thomas  354 
Do.  357 
Do.  357 
Do.  361 
Do.  365 
W.  M,  Bunting.  369 
Do.  376 
Do.  386 

E.  Tatham  390 
Do.  390 
Do.  393 
Do.  394 
Do.  395 
Do.  400 
Do.  402 
D».  409 
Do.  409 
Do.  409 
Do.  409 

J.1  Harris.  413 

Do.  413 

D>.   413 

Do.  413 

Do.  415 

Do.  417,  428 

Do.  417 

Do.  422 

T.  Gar  I  mid.  45  e, 

Do.  458 

Do.  460 

Do.  467 

C.  Garland.   467,  470 

Do.  470 

Do.  470 

C.  L.  Ford.  474 

Do.  476 

Do.  476 

Do.  477 

M.  Hare.  481 

Do.  483 

J .  Smetliam.  486 

Do.  489 

F.  F.  Wooley.  491 

J.  fVeslry.  82 

J.  Sutrliffe.  326 

S.  Dunn.  342 

J.  W.  Thomas.  358 

Byron.  352 
J.  W.  Thomas.  357 


INDEX 

Where  shall  I  lay  my  weary  head  ?    . 

When  Israel,  by  God's  command 

Why  dost  thou  hold  thine  hand  aback 

What  sudden  blaze  of  song 

While  Butler,  needy  wretch    . 

While  sickness  rends  this  tenement 

Where  shall  my  wondering  soul  begin  ? 

With  poverty  of  spirit  bless'd 

When  my  sorrows  most  increase 

Worship,  and  thanks,  and  blessing 

When  young,  and  full  of  sanguine  hope 

What  art  thou,  Love  ? 

When  snows  descend,  and  robe 

When  I  tread  the  verge  of  Jordan 

We  sing  to  Thee,  thou  Son  of  God     . 

What !  though  no  objects  strike  . 

We  soon  shall  hear  the  midnight  cry. 

Within  my  hand  is  a  little  lyre     • 

Why  looks  my  father  on  that  lettered  stone 

What  is  the  soul  ?  and  where  does  it  reside  5 

What  is  our  life  ?  ofttimes  we  ask 

When  in  the  round  of  giddy  life  . 

Why  do  the  Gentile  nations  rage 

"  Walking  with  God  "     . 

Within  our  isle,  along  our  shores 

What  fair  one  from  the  desert  do  we  meet 

"  War  of  the  Surplice  " 

When  on  death's  lone  bed  I  lie    . 

"  White  Roe  of  Rilston  " 

Without,  the  angry  elements 

Who  hastes  to  heap  up  gold  shall  find 

44  War  Fiend"       . 

Wearied  with  the  long  pilgrimage  of  life 

Wings  of  the  dove 

Ye  monsters  of  the  bubbling  deep 
Ye  sons  and  daughters  of  the  Lord 
Yon  mountain  altars  . 
Yes,  years  have  darkly  stolen  by 


5°7 


i*.  rr  esiey 

7 
»3 

Keble. 

4* 

S.  Wesley,  Junr. 

5* 

Hetty  Wesley. 

77 

C.  Wesley. 

87 

Do. 

89 

Do. 

127 

Do. 

i37 

Do. 

]54 

Gam  bold. 

163 

Hervey. 

170 

Hrilliams.   176, 

177 

Cennick. 

198 

Byrom. 

248 

Hinitingdon. 

266 

.  E.  F.  A.  Sergeant. 

280 

S.  Drew. 

308 

D>. 

312 

McNicoll. 

322 

J.  SutcUJfe. 

325 

Do. 

327 

H.  Bourne. 

334 

J.  Everett. 

337 

J.  W.  Thomas. 

357 

Do. 

360 

W.  M.  Bunting. 

387 

Wordsworth. 

398 

J.  Harris. 

4i7 

Do. 

425 

Do. 

426 

B.  Gough. 

45i 

C.  Garland. 

470 

H.  Bourne.  336 

IF.  M.  Bunting.  383 

T.  Garland.  458 


Zion,  arise  and  shine 


J.  Sutclife.  329 


5o8 


INDEX  TO  NAMES  AND  PLACES,  &c. 


PAGE 

M  Account  of  Christian  Perfection,"  Song-  about 

.     119 

Act  of  Uniformity         .... 

24,     20 

Acland,  Sir  Thomas 

■    383 

Adeline,  Mrs.  Sergeant                  .                  .           277,  278 

,    279,    280,    283 

Addington  Square,  Margate 

•    405 

Allen,  Mr.  James        .... 

.215,     217 

Alnwick — Abbey — Castle  . 

•    336 

"A  Life  Lesson,"  by  J.  Drew     . 

3°5 

A  Jack-Tar's  Maxim 

.     27 

11  A  Tobacco  Pipe,"  by  S.  Wesley 

29 

Annesley,  Dr.     .... 

•     32 

American  Improvements  on  Watts 

14 

"  Athenian  Gazette  " 

•     32 

Atterbury,  Bishop 

49 

Athlone,  Ireland 

.  197 

Associations  of  the  Wesleys,  Curious 

96 

"  Arminian  Magazine  "  :  its  Editorship 

•  238 

Ancoats  Hall,  Manchester 

275 

Arthur,  King,  his  Castle     . 

.  294 

Alan,  River,  Cornwall                   .               ■  . 

294 

"  As  You  Like  It,''  New  Act  in 

•  355 

Ambleside  .... 

3<>3 

A  Very  Pretty  Stick 

.     17 

Axminster  .... 

20 

Atlantic  Ocean  .... 

203,  43° 

Aysgarth,  Yorkshire    . 

398 

Badcock,  Boatman  in  the  Patagonian  Mission  . 

.   117 

Bardsley,  Samuel 

208 

Bakewell,  Mr.  John            .                  .                  -234 

.  257 

,  259,  260,  261 

Bath             .... 

475 

Baptist  Church  in  Hackney 

.  478 

Batty,  Lawrence 

216 

Batty,  Giles         .... 

.  216 

Batty,  Wm. 

.  216,  217 

Batty,  Christopher 

.  216,  217,  218 

Batty,  Alice 

217 

Beveridge,  Bishop 

•     '3 

Belcher,  Dr. 

14 

INDEX    TO    NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


5°9 


Bereaved  Infidel  Saved 

. 

.   124 

Bedfordshire 

184 

Berridge,  Rev.  John 

.  186,  187, 

189,  190,  192 

Bedford  Family 

393 

Bourne,  Hugh    . 

333,  334.  335 

Bourignon,  Madame  . 

.     10,  246 

Bohemian  Brethren 

.     42 

Blundell  Grammar  School,  Tiverton 

•    5°>     51 

Blundell,  Peter     . 

•     50 

Blackwell,  the  London  Banker     . 

•    9S>  !°7 

Blind  Young  Man  at  Tewkesbury 

.  r29 

Birstal,  Happy  Death  at 

144 

Bolton,  Lancashire,  Last  Visit  of  J.  Wesley 

•   157 

Bideford,  Devon 

169 

Bolingbroke,  Old,  Lincoln  . 

.  252 

Boston's  "  Four-fold  State  " 

2S7>  259 

Bishopsgate  Street,  London 

•  327 

Bloomsbury,  London  . 

393 

Bolton  Abbey,  Yorkshire,  397 — Castle 

•  398 

Bishop's  Dale,  Yorkshire 

398 

Boughton,  Kent . 

435 >  437 

Brady  and  Tate 

13 

Brinkhill,  Lincoln 

•     3i 

Bray,  Mr.,  Moravian    . 

.     86 

243,  245,  248 

Brewster,  Rev.  Mr, 

.  146 

Bristol,  155.  226,  227 — Channel 

294 

Bradford,' Wilts  . 

227,  229 

Brackenbury,  R.  C,  Esq. 

•  252, 

253>  254,  257 

Brailsford,  Derby 

•  257 

Brownwilley  Hill,  Cornwall 

294 

Bryant,  Rev.  John 

.  296 

Brougham  Castle 

•  363,  364 

Brougham,  Lord 

.  364 

British  Museum 

393 

Buckinghamshire 

•     75 

Burnup  Field 

181 

Bulmer,  Mr.  Joseph  . 

.  268 

Bulmer,  Mrs.  Agnes 

268,  270, 

273>  275,  276 

Bunting,  Thos.   Percival 

•  368 

Bunting,  Rev.  W.  M.     268,  288,  289,  303,  368 

>  37°,  372, 

373,  377.  382 

Bunting,  Dr.  Jabez 

368,  380,  496 

Bunyan's,  John,  "Pilgrim" 

. 

•  3*4 

Bustard,  Rev.  John 

33o,  332 

Burden  Moor,  Yorkshire 

•  398 

Byron,  Lord       . 

h  2,  3,  352 

Byrom,  Dr.                  .                  .                18,  242 

.  243,  246, 

249,  250,  252 

Catholic  Christianity 

2 

Carfax  Conduit,  Oxford 

, 

26 

Carter,  Mrs.  Elizabeth 

75 

Cares  at  Night 

. 

104 

INDEX     TO     NAMES    AND     PLACES,    ETC. 


Canterbury       ..... 

Calvin,  John  ..... 

Catherine  Hall,  Cambridge 

Carnmarth,  Cornwall  .... 

Carvosso,  William,  235  — Saintly  wife  of 

Callington,  Cornwall  .... 

Campbell,  the  Poet  .... 

Cambridge  ..... 

Camelford,  Cornwall         ....     293, 

Camel,  River  ..... 

Caxton  Press  ..... 

"  Catechism  of  Christian  Religion,"  by  Rev.  J.  Sutcliffe. 

Camp  Meetings,  Origin  in  England 

Camborne,  Cornwall,  340,  417,  422,  475 — Exciting  Scene  in 


Caledonian  Forest 

Carnbrae,  Cornwall 

Caesar,  Julius 

Catherston,  Dorset 

Cambridge  Farm,  Cornwall 

Cennick,  John 

Centenary  Hall,  London    . 

Church  of  England  Doggrel 

Chimes  and  Rhvmes 

Charles  II. 

Charmouth,  Dorset 

Char  well  River,  Oxford 

Christchurch,  Oxford 

"  Christian  World  Unmasked,"  by  Berridge 

Cheerful  Piety,  by  Berridge 

Cheapside,  London 

Chester  City 

Chancery  Lane,  London 

Cheshire 

Chevy  Chase 

Chaucer 

Charity,  Story  about  . 

Charlotte,  Princess,  Sermon  on  Death  of 

City  Road  Chapel,  London 

"  City  Road  Magazine  "     . 

Clayton,  Rev.  Wm.    . 

Clare  Hall,  Oxford 

Clarke,  Dr.,  of  Bradford 

Clarke,  Dr.  Adam 

Cleveland,  Yorkshire  . 

Clowes,  Wm.     . 

Coach  Travel 

Coke,  Dr. 

Coke's,  Dr.,  Edition  of  "  Wesley's  Life  of  Christ 

Commentary,  by  Rev.  J.  Sutcliffe 

Confession,  a  Lesson  on 

Co  vent  Garden  Theatre 


J  94 


236 


418 


»9S 


jo9 


419 


,96 


339 


PACK 

183,  184 

»92»  3^3 

.  216 

219 

•  235 

235 

.  43o 

243 

294,  295 

294 

3H 

.  326 

335 

34i 

•  363 

420,  421 

•  4'9 

24 

•  456 

197,  199 

•  327 

•5 

i7»  J8 

21,  22 

.  24 

25 

.  164 

193 

•  193 

i95 

•  236 

324 

•  33  5 

336 

.  441 

483 

•  497 

479 

•  497 

161, 249 

.  187 

229 

343.  479 

398 

•  335 

21 

•  314 

33,  34 

.326 

57 

.  93 

INDEX    TO    NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC 

$" 

PACK 

Cornish  Minister  and  Old  Woman 

. 

147 

Cornish  Hills     . 

•     4M 

Cornwall      168,  207,  230,  235,  294 

339.  34o»  4U,  415 

,444 

456,   461 

Cornish  Mines  and  Miners,  200 — Cornish  Batons 

.     294 

Cork,  City  . 

2  30 

Collinson,  Agnes 

.     268 

Congleton   . 

33$ 

Consecrated  Places 

372»  373 

Conversion  on  London  Bridge     . 

373 

Covenant,  Renewal  by  Methodists 

•  378 

Coleridge    . 

. 

382 

Coutts,  Miss  Burdett 

•  385 

Contented  Miner 

423,  425 

Critic  of  Redruth 

.  208 

Crosse,  Mr.,  of  Bradford 

325 

Cyrus,  Travels  of,  by  Raynal 

•  393 

Dales-Green,  Stafford . 

335 

Dante 

364.  365 

David,  Psalmist,  437,  438 — Q-ueerly 

Versified 

'3 

Dawson,  Wm.,  Anecdote  of 

.  181 

Darwin,  Dr. 

29 

Darney,  Wm.     . 

•  213 

214,  215 

Darwin,  Robert,  of  Epworth 

58,  59 

Dartmouth,  Lord 

.  264 

Devonshire,  383 — A  Hymnist,  12 — North  . 

119 

Devonport 

•  389 

Da  Quincey,  Mr. 

459 

Delamotte,  Mr.  . 

.  216 

Denby,  Derby,  492,  496,  494 — Shire 

257»  492 

Deal,  Kent 

•  33^ 

Delany,  Mrs. 

81 

Donnington  Park 

.  268 

Dorset 

20,  : 

Doddridge,  Dr.    . 

•  379 

Dorchester  Grammar  School 

26 

Dolcoath  Mine,  Cornwall  . 

422,  423 

Dublin 

95 

155,  198 

Dryden.John 

•  359 

Dunton,  the  Publisher  and  Author 

29,  32 

Duncombe  Park,  Yorkshire 

•  35o 

Duncombe,  Mr. 

75 

Drew,  Samuel     .                  .           305, 306,  307,  308,  312 

3*3, 

3H.   3i7 

Dundee 

. 

320 

Dunn,  Rev.  S.    . 

•    339.  340 

,34i 

342,  343 

Earthquake  in  London,  138 — Thoug 

its  on,  by  Wesley 

139 

Eamont,  River    . 

•  3(>3 

Eaton,  Little,  Derby  . 

,                   . 

496 

Elchester,  Young  Methodist  of 

. 

•   130 

Eden,  River 

.                   , 

3(>3 

Edward  IV. 

• 

•  419 

5™ 


INDEX    TO     NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


E  Igware,  Middlesex  . 

t,  king 
English  Lakes 
Epworth 
Epworth  Singers  .  .  40, 41 

1  I  of  Christ,  by  J.  Sutcliffe 
Everton,  1S7,  192 — Revival  at 
Everett,  James  . 
Ewood 
Exe.  River 

Exeter  College,  Oxford 
Exeter.  20,  359 — Bishop  of 

Family  Life  of  C.  Wes 

"  Farther  Appeal,"  by  J.  Wesley 

Falmouth,  Cornwall    . 

Fal,  River 

Fairfield,  Cornwall 

"  Familiar  Colloquies,"  by  M.  H 

Fetishism,  Christian  . 

Fletcher,  John,  of  Madeley 

Foxall,  Cheshire 

Foundry,  Moorfields 

Fordhays,  Stafford 

Foundling  Hospital,  London 

Ford,  C.  L. . 

Forest  Hill,  London 

Frith  Street,  London     . 

Franklin's  "  Way  to  Wealth  " 

Gambold,  John .  .  .  161,  162, 

Gawksholm 

Garland,  Thos.  .  .  54,  455,  459,  462,  463 

Garland,  Charles 

German  Psalmody 

German  Ocean 

Georgia 

Gerhardt,  Paul,  108  Illustrations  of 

Gell.  Dr..  on  the  °  Pentateuch  " 

Geake,  Mr.  and  Mrs. . 

George  III.  and  Lady  Huntingdon,  2^4.,   265 — his  Queen 

"  Gentleman's  Guide  to  English,"  by  J.  Sutcliffe 

"  Geological  Essavs,"  by  J.  Sutcliffe 

Gould,  Mr.  . 

M  Gospel  Magazine  " 

Goodman,  Dr.  John  . 

Gough,  Benjamin  .  .  .  4 -,5.  443, 

Golds  nith,  Oliver 

Granvill,  Mary  . 

Grimshaw,  Rev.  Mr.   . 

Grenville.  Sir  Bevil 

Green,  John 


PAGE 

.  294 

303 

58,  61 

44.  51,  .;;.  6a 

188 
339.3*6,  343 

2.5 

S3i  355 

26 
.  360 

122 

•  249 
.305.  430 

.  2S9 
459,  464,  467 

•  479 
3  7^ 

186,  239,  257 

237 
250,  260 

334 

•  303 

47c,  472,  474 


4* 


.  4So 
•  7  3  >  75 

•  3"4 

63,  164,  166 

215 

4r>7»  47° 

467.  47° 

42,  43 

75 

81,  105 

.110,  in 

.  152 

235 

.  2^.6 

326 

•  326 

'3' 

.  182 

343 
444,  446,  45 1 

197 

.  81 

139,  140,  325 

.  169 

217 


INDEX    TO     NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


Green,  Miss 
Greenwich 
Grange  I  l>use   . 
Gregory,  Benj .,  Senr.  . 
Gregory,  Benjamin 
Gumby,  Colonel 
Gwennap,  Cornwall,  107- 


■Pit 


Harrington,  Lincoln    . 
Harper,  Mrs. 

Hall,  Mr.    . 

"  Harlequin  Preacher  at  Covent 

Haworth,  Yorkshire  . 

Haslam,  Mr.,  of  Markland  Hill 

Harding-ston,  Northants 

Hartland,  Devon 

Havvley  Square,  Margate 

Havle,  Cornwall 

Han  lei,  393,  441 — His  Music 

Harris,  John 

Hall,  Root. 

Hackney 

Hare,  Mr.  Middleton 

Hare,  Rev.  Edward 

Henry,  Matthew,  Commentary 

Hervey,  Rev.  James 

Hervey,  Wm. 

Heptonstall 

Henry  III.  of  England 

"  Hermit  of  Warkworth  "  . 

Helmsley,  Yorkshire,  349,  350 — Ca: 

Helston,  Cornwall 

High  Street,  Oxford    . 

Highman,  Mr. 

Hicks,  Rev.  Mr. 

High  gate  Rise,  London 

Honiton 

Hopkey,  Sophia  Christiana 

Holy  Club,  Oxford     . 

Horn,  Rev.  John 

Holland      . 

Holland,  Mr.  J.,  of  Sheffield 

Holmcote,  Devon 

Holborn  Hill,  London 

Hu.iibras     . 


Hulne  Abbev     . 

Hymns  of  Methodist  Poets 

"  Hymns,  Ancient  and  Modern 

Hymn-making  on  Horseback 


Garden 


1S3 


413 


184 


418 


J39 


422 


61 


392 
192, 


140 


5*3 

PAGE 

•  231 

259 

•  2  75 

493.  494,  49r> 

496,  497 

250 

148,  219 

3i 

•  55 
85 

•  93 
213,  215,  325 

.  158 
166 

167,  168,  169 
212 

284,  285,  286 

389 

,  425,  426,  430 

465 

.  478 

,  480,  481,  485 

•  479 


423 
479 
166,  168,  1 


.  215 

252 

.  331 

•  35°>  35i 

.  427 

26 

•  75 
187 

•  382 
20 

.  81 
161 

.  252 
254 

•  337 
383 

399,  401,  402,  403 

5i 

262,  263,  264,  265, 

266,  268 

.  336 

11 

15.91 

.      88,  89 


SH 


INDEX    TO    NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


Hymns  for  a  Family- 

PACK 
.     I20 

Hymns  for  the  Brotherhood 

128 

Hymn  of  a  Young  Mother 

•     173 

Indiana,  U.S.,  Pilgrim  Preacher  of 

I03 

Ingham,  Benjn. 

l6l,    174,   215,   217 

"  Immortality  of  the  Soul," 

by  J.  Sutcliffe 

326 

Ireland 

I39>  230 

Islington,  London 

242,  243,  245 

Isaac,  Rev.  D.  . 

.  496 

Ivey,  Mr.     . 

295 

Jabbok  River 

•   I5S 

Jackson,  the  Painter    . 

317 

Jackson,  Rev.  Thos. 

•  33° 

Jenyns,  Soame,  Works  of 

133 

Jordan,  River      . 

•  155 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel 

•    66,393 

Keith,  Scotch  Family 

•  337 

Kent 

211,  212,442,  444 

Kexborough,  Yorkshire 

.    2IO 

Kendal 

2l8 

Kersal-cell,  Manchester 

. 

.    249 

Kentish  Town,  London 

382 

Kirk  of  Scotland  Doggrel 

.   is 

Kirton,  Lincoln 

43 

Kirkham,  Betsy 

.     81 

Kirkham,  Robert 

81 

Kirk,  Rev.  J.      . 

•  155 

Kingswood 

i55i  x97 

Kilkhampton,  Cornwall 

. 

.  168 

Kingston,  Northants  . 

187 

Kidsgrove,  Stafford 

•  335 

Kirby  Moorside,  Yorkshire 

3Si 

Kynance  Cove,  Cornwall 

.  416 

Laud,  Archbishop 

26 

Lambert,  John,  of  Epworth 

.     64 

Lampe,  Mr.,  Musician,  92,  93 — Death  and  Elegy 

96 

Lancashire          .... 

•  215 

Langson,  Mary 

237 

Law,  Wm.          .... 

.  241 

Lacy,  Mr.  Jeremiah    . 

259 

Lanteglos,  Cornwall 

•  294 

Langstrothdale  Chase,  Yorkshire 

398 

Lady  in  a  West  of  England  Paradise 

.  407 

Land's  End,  Cornwall 

430 

Lamb,  Charles    .... 

■  459 

Lawrence,  Mr.,  Story  of 

47i 

Leyburn,  Yorkshire 

.     80 

Lee,  Elizabeth,  of  Nottingham    . 

145 

Leeds 

. 

.  224 

NDEX    TO     NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


Si$ 


PAGB 

Leoni,  Dr.   .                  . 

2  34 

Lincolnshire 

. 

43. 

211, 

252 

Lincoln  College,  Oxford 

27 

Limerick 

. 

23O 

Little  Britain,  London 

242, 

248 

London,  26,  230,  242,  295,  314,  326 

392, 

397»4 

DO,  4C 

>i,  408 

—  From, 

to  Oxford  on  Foot,  25 — Houses  and  Streets,  : 

193— 

Bridge 

373 

Loman,  River,  Devon 

. 

53 

Lomas,  John,  of  Manchester 

131 

Lombard,  Rev.  Daniel 

. 

294 

Locke,  John 

3H 

Louth,  Lincoln    . 

. 

. 

31 

Luther 

42,  i 

IQ2 

Lynton,  Devon 

383 

Master  Singers 

42 

Marazion,  Cornwall 

. 

IOO 

Manchester,  131,  242,  274,  275 — A 

n  Infidel  in 

124 

Martyn,  Tunc    . 

. 

133 

Margate 

. 

212, 

404 

Maidenhead,  Kent 

3°3 

11  Magazine,  Imperial " 

314 

Malcolm's  Cross 

. 

. 

336 

Mary  of  Scots            '  . 

356 

McNicoll,  Rev.  David 

-  3i7 

,318, 

3l9 

»  322 

323 

Methodism 

2, 

),  16 

Methodists,  their  Principles 

. 

8 

Methodist  Magazines,  Ancient  and  Modern 

.    12 

270 

Methodist  Club,  242 — Hymn-book, 

465- 

-Book- 

•room 

. 

479 

Methodist  Doggrel 

. 

J5 

"  Meditations,"  Hervey's     . 

. 

167 

171 

Mevagissey,  Cornwall 

339 

'*  Measure  for  Measure,"  New  Scene  in 

. 

355 

Milton,  his  Hymns,  11 — Sonnets 

348 

Minnie  Singers  . 

. 

, 

42 

Middleham,  Yorkshire 

398 

Miner's  Remarkable  Escape 

in 

Mount  Edgcumbe,  Cornwall 

126 

Moravians 

162 

Montgomeryshire 

225 

Montgomery,  James 

234 

,  270 

,337 

Moorfields,  London 

250 

Modred,  King  Arthur's  Nephew- 

294 

Mow  Cop,  Stafford 

335 

Mountfield,  Kent 

434 

>435 

,  440 

Murray,  Grace 

81 

Musician's  Hymn 

. 

94 

Music,  Heavenly 

. 

389 

Mystic  Hymnists 

42 

Newington  Green,  London 

26 

Newcastle 

. 

95 

,337 

5i« 


INDEX    TO    N\MES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


Nelson,  John,  on  St.  Hilary  Downs 
Newfoundland    . 
Nectan,  St.,  Abbey,  Devon 
Newlyn,  Penzance 

New  by  Cote,  Yorkshire 

Newton,  Cornwall 

Newton,  Rev.  Robt.     . 

Newgate,  402 — Street,  London 

Nichols,  Mr.  Jas. 

Night  of  Weeping 

Normanby,  Marquis  . 

Nottinghamshire,  43 — Nottingh; 

Northern  Wolds 

Norwich 

Norfolk 

Norman  Isles 

North  Sea  . 

Nye,  Mr. 

Olives,  Mount  of 

Oliver,  Thos.      .  220,  225,  228,  229 

Orphan  House,  Newcastle 

Oral  Hymnology 

Owen,  Dr.  John 

Oxonian,  a  Young 

Oxford,  Lord 

Oxford,  25,  179,  243 — Lincoln  College 

Oxfordshire 

Parting  Scene  between  Fletcher  and  Berridge 

Paine,  Tom 

Patagonian  Mission 

Perronet,  Edwdard 

Perronet,  Charles 

Perronet,  Vincent 

Penkridge,  Persecution  at  . 

Penzance,  Cornwall,  204,  301 — Bay 

Pearce,  Mr.  Richard 

Penrith,  365 — Castle  . 

Penhill,  Yorkshire 

Pin  Mill  Brow,  Manchester 

Poetry,  What  is  It  ? 

Poets  of  Methodism,  Classified 

Pope,  49,  311,  351— Dunciad,  28,  38,  351,  35 

Ponsanooth,  Cornwall 

Portsmouth 

Polwhele,  Parson 

Portreath,  Cornwall 

Presbyterian  Doggrel 

Pressgang  and  Quaker 

Providential  Escape  of  a  Young  Miner 

Pretender,  The,  250 — In  Manchester. 


234,  23 


i.39»  J45 


237.  238 


180 


11a 


PAOE 

IOI, 

32.S 

I46 

lf)8 

20  + 

2l6 

289 

3301 

496 

402 

480 

490 

31 

295, 

298 

44 

183 

211, 

230 

2  54 

442, 

478 

287 

386 

239) 

258 

337 

12 

25 

360 

49 

, 

161 

211 

326 

187 

3H 

117 

183 

,  184 

180 

180 

180 

201 

228 

,  229 

363 

398 

.  399 

275 

U 

19 

312 

2  35 

256 

3H 

456 

,457 

15 

.  201 

202 

.  249 

INDEX    TO    NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


51 


Primitive  Methodists,  their  Origin 

PAGE 

334 

Preacher,  Soon  Made 

•  371 

Puncheston,  Pembroke 

164 

Quaker,  an  Old  Dutch,  in  Dublin 

•     95 

Quaker  Lady  and  John  Harris  . 

.  425,  426 

Raithley  Hall,  Lincoln 

•  252,  253,  254 

Redruth,  Cornwall,   206,  207,   212,  219,   328,  45 

4,  464 — Wesley's 

Room,  In,  106 — Letter  from  . 

107 

"  Reflections  in  a  Flower  Garden,"  by  Hervey    . 

.   170 

Reading,  Berks 

196 

Red  mire,  Yorkshire 

•  398 

Redbourne,  near  St.  Albans 

.  408,  409 

Revivals,  Religious 

.  461 

Rhodes,  Benjamin 

208,  209,  210 

Ripley,  Yorkshire 

.     88 

Rich,  Mrs.,  of  Covent  Garden     . 

92,  93 

Rich,  Mr.  R.,  his  House     . 

92,  93 

Rievaulx  Abbey,  Yorkshire 

•  352,  354 

Richard  of  York 

.  398 

"  Rounders,"  Methodist 

201 

Rodda,  Richard 

.  203 

Roundhouse  at  Redruth 

207 

Robinson,  the  Hymnist 

.  266 

Rochester    .... 

326 

Russell  Square,  London 

•  393 

Russell  Family 

393 

Sarah,  the  Dying  Sunday-school  Girl 

.     38 

Sancreed,  Cornwall     . 

203 

•  175 
271 

•  326 
•  ]>  2,  371 

Sandemanian  Faith 

Saul,  King,  at  Endor 

Saurnis  Sermons,  by  J.  Sutcliffe 

Scott,  Walter 

Scotland               .... 

.  211 

Scotch  William,  the  Lion 

336 

Scotch  Lakes      .... 

•  363 
216 

Settle,  Yorkshire 

Sevenoaks,  Surrey 

.  286 

Sergeant,  Mrs.             .                  .                               2 

-77,  278,  279,  280,  283 

Sergeant,  E.  F.  A. 

280,  282 

Sermons  on  Regeneration,  by  J.  Sutcliffe  . 

326 

Sermon,  High  Church 

•  361 

Sermon  to  a  Village  Club 

493 

•  33o 

Sherborne,  Dorset 

Shakespeare  Quoted    . 

J5>  27,  30,  393 

Shannon,  River  .... 

146,  147 

Sheffield      .... 

33i 
.  246 

Short-hand  Lessons  on  a  Verse 

Singing  of  Early  Methodists,  90 — Decline  of 

91 
.  132 

488 

Singer,  Female,  at  Vermont 

Smetham,  Mr.  James 

5»8 


INDEX    TO     NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC. 


Smith,  Dr.  George 

PACE 
.    417 

Solomon  Versified 

13,    18 

South  Ormsby,  Lincoln 

3r»  55 

Soho  Square,  London 

73 

Song  of  a  Working  Father 

•  i74 

Southey,  Poet               ... 

352 

"  Speedwell,"  Patagonian  Mission  Ship 

.  118 

Spanish  Hymn,  by  J.  Wesley     . 

.  104,  106 

Spilsby,  Lincoln 

•  252 

Sparrows,  Story  about 

445 

St.  Paul's  Experience  and  Gifts 

.  3»4 

St.  Mary's,  Oxford      .                  .                • . 

26 

St.  Peter's,  Tiverton 

•     54 

St.  Hilary  Downs,  and  Wesley  Adventures 

.    IOO,  101 

St.  Just,  Cornwall 

101,  203 

St.  Agnes,  Cornwall 

219 

St.  John,  Family 

.  252 

St.  Blazey,  Cornwall  . 

308 

St.  Austell,  Cornwall 

•    289,  306,  316 

St.  Saviour's  Grammar  School,  Southwark 

373 

St.  Albans           .... 

.  408 

Sternhold  and  Hopkins 

13 

Stepney                .... 

.     26 

Stanmore,  Middlesex  . 

75 

Stuart,  House  of 

.  249 

Staffordshire 

334 

Storm  at  Night  in  London 

.  402 

Stockport    .... 

479 

Sunday  School  Teacher's  Death 

47»  48 

Supernatural  Disturbances,  Epworth 

•       57,58 

Suffering  Triumphant  in  a  Cottage    . 

.  126 

Surrey         .... 

286,  295 

Sussex                 .... 

.  212 

Sutcliffe,  Rev.  Josh.     . 

324>  328 

"  Sweet  Auburn,"  Goldsmith's 

.  198 

Swaddlers   .... 

198 

Swift,  Dean        .... 

.  246 

Tatham  Family 

399 

Tatham,  Emma,   391,  393,   397,   398,   401,403,  4 

04,  408,  411  — 

Quoted,  5,  8,  9 

Tate  and  Brady .... 

•     13 

Taylor,  Isaac 

58 

Tamar  River       ...» 

.   126 

Thomas,  Rev.  J.  W.  .                  .                               34.7 

.  355>  359»  364,  365 

Tewkesbury        .... 

.  129 

Teuton  Settlers 

442 

Terra  del  Fuego 

.  118 

Tin-washers'  Song     . 

"3 

Theobald's  Road,  London  . 

•  393 

Tinner,  a  Seeker  of  Signs 

US 

INDEX    TO    NAMES    AND    PLACES,    ETC 


5*9 

PAGE 

.     294 

312 

50,  53,  55>229 

43 

.   171 

•  239.  259 
291,  293,  294,  303 
288,  289,  294,  301 

•  3°3 
289 

•  293 
295 

•  393 
95 

.  287 

335 

•  3!2 


Tintagel  Castle,  Cornwall 

"The  Immateriality,  &c,  of  the  Soul,"  by  S.  Drew 

Tiverton,  Devon 

Trent  River  .  •    . 

"  Theron  and  Aspasio,"  by  Hervey    . 

Toplady,  Rev.  A. 

Treffry,  Rev.  R.,  Senr.        .  .  289,  290 

Treffry,  Rev.  R.,  Junr.  .  286 

Treffry,  Mrs.  R. 

Tregony,  Cornwall 

Truro,  Cornwall 

Truscott,  Rev.  F. 

"  Travels  of  Cyrus,"  by  Raynal 

Tunes  for  Methodist  Hymns,  by  Lampe 

Tunbridge  Wells 

Tunstal       . 

Twickenham 

United  Methodist  Free  Churches 
Ulswater  Lake    . 

Vermont,  America 

Veryan  Bay,  Cornwall 

Virgil  Quoted  against  a  Shrew 

Virginia,  Young  Man  of     . 

Villiers,  Duke  of  Buckingham 

"  View  of  the  Kingdom  of  Christ,"  by  Williams 

War  Song,  Spiritual 

Watts,  Isaac 

Walpole,  Robert 

Wales,  South,  164 — Adventures  on  the  Way  to 

Walsall 

Waterford,  230 — Cathedral  and  Bishop  of 

Watson,  Rev.  R 

Warbuiton,  Bishop  .  .  .  .24 

Wesley,  John,  1,  7,  15,  16,  23,  29,  34,  44,  55,  57,  60,  73,  75,  70 


T3] 


338 

•  3^3 

133 

289 
88 

•  *33 
35i 

.  178 

13 

H,  J55 

49.  5o 

.   no 

136 
.  231 

236 
1,  242 

2,84, 


86,  97,  98,  100,  104,  106,  119,  135,  139, 141,  151,  153,  155,  157,  158, 

161,  162,  166,  171,  179,  180,  183,  187,  194,  196,  197,  204,  219,  220, 

229,  232,  238,  239,  241,  242,  243,  245,  246,  247,  249,  250,  253,  254, 

262,  2t8,  320,  325,  326,  328,  337,  344,  378,  398,  448 

Wesley,  Charles,  1,  6,  7,  25,  a,  34,  44,  57,  66,  84,  85,  86,  88,  89,  90, 

92>  93>95,  9§,  IJ5-  "7»  I2°>  I25,  J28,  135,  139,  141,  147,  150,  151, 

155,  158,  161,  162,  172,  180,  181,  183,  197,  198,  214,  215,  224,  245, 

246,  248,  249,  250,  378,  465,  466,  480 

Wesley,  Samuel,  Senr.,  351,  352 — Quoted,   13 — Alluded  to,  26,  27,  29, 

30.3I.  32,34.40.44.  52,  82 

22,  23,  24,  26 

23,  24,  26 

30,  44,  45,  46,49.  51.  52,  53 

.     66 

•     32,  44,  45.  46,  448 


Wesley,  Bartholomew 
Wesley,  John,  Senr. 
Wesley,  Samuel,  Junr. 
Wesley,  Matthew 
Wesley,  Susannah 


520 


INDEX    TO     NAMES    AND     PLACES,    ETC. 


Wesley,  Susannah,  Junr.  . 

PAGE 

44,  45-  68 

Wesley,  Emilia 

44,  55«  5  7,  5S>  59.  ()° 

Wesley,  Mary     .... 

44,  61,  62 

Wesley,  Mehetabel 

44,  62,66,67,  70,  75 

Wesley,  Anne     .... 

44,  64,  65 

Wesley,  Martha 

44,  65,  66,  85 

Wesley,  Kezia    '.                  .                  .                  . 

44,  66,  85 

. .  Mrs.  C.           . 

124 

y  Family,  their  Seat  . 

.     22 

West  Street  Chapel,  London 

60,  92,  257 

Wedding,  Remarkable 

.   121 

Wednesbury 

•  136,  138 

Wensley  Dale,  Yorkshire    . 

398>  399 

West  Witton,  Yorkshire 

•  3'A  399 

Weymouth          .... 

.     24 

Westmoreland 

398 

Westminster,  258 — School,  46 — Abbey 

5I»52,  53 

Whitfield,  Geo.,  90,  161,  166,  172,  173,  177,  199,  2 

10,  226,  227,  241,  268 

Whitaker,  John 

3i4 

Wharf,  River 

397>  398 

Whitehall,  London 

-5  7 

Whalers,  Old  Custom  among 

•  47S 

Whit-Monday  Sermon  to  a  Club 

492 

Winterborn,  Whitchurch,  Dorset 

24,  26 

Whiteiamb,  John 

61 

Williams,  Mr.,  of  Patagonian  Mission 

.   117 

"  Widow  Indeed,"  her  Last  Song 

175-  J76 

Williams,  Wra.,  the  Hymnist 

•  J76,  177,  i:& 

Williams,  Mr.,  of  Kidderminster 

•      9°>9l 

Wilmot,  Lord      .... 

.     22 

Woo  J,  Rev.  Robert,  and  Crystal  Palace 

US 

Wood,  Mr.  James 

•  ^75 

Worth,  Rev.  Wm. 

236 

Wordsworth,  Wm.,  272,  459 — On  the  Rainbow 

•  ^73 

Woodhouse  Grove,  near  Leeds 

479 

Wooley,  Rev.  F.  F. 

.    4QO 

Wroote,  Lincoln 

55»  61,  64 

Wright,  Mrs.      .... 

•     55 

Wright,  Mr. 

70,  -2,  78 

Wrestling  Jacob,  Sung  at  Bolton 

.  158 

Wrigley,  Francis 

3*8 

Yorkshire             .... 

44,  213,  295,  397 

Yoie  Valley  and  River,  Yorkshire 

398 

Zinzendorf,  Count 
Zetland  Isles 


165,  241 

343 


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